3,554 miles
by PaperPrince
Summary: AU Bored and lonely Sherlock starts a long distance friendship with one Captain John Watson. Things quickly develop and they start dating... slash! Rated M for mentions of past abuse, swearing and smut!
1. Prologue

**3,554 miles **

They let him out for the funeral, or more accurately cremation. For all of his skills of deduction Sherlock hadn't been expecting his passing. It was a terrible shock to the system to learn you could miss something like that, observe and still not see such an obvious clue. A part of him wonders how he had managed to overlook the signs, the failing mental and physical health of his grandfather. The Colonel hadn't been his best lately and if he was honest with himself neither had Sherlock. How could he do that? He wonders as the pain in his chest burns. How could he let himself get into such a state he misses his opportunity to say goodbye. Well no more he thinks deciding then and there never to touch drugs again as long as he lives. They aren't worth it he decides as he takes his seat on the hard pew beside his brother.

Mycroft had known, father too and even mummy. So why had they not said anything about his grandfather's failing health during one of their numerous visits? Surely they realised he would have come immediately if they had told him. Hell if need be he would have broken out of rehab to see him if he had _known_. It wasn't not like the health facility lacked phones after all.

Had they not wanted his grandfather to see him? Had they been ashamed of him? Of what he had become? Did they want to protect his grandfather from seeing the drug addicted mess he had become?

No surely not, the Colonel wasn't stupid. Out of all of them he had been Sherlock's closest confident, the one he could call regardless of the hour or the situation Sherlock had put himself in. Hazy memories of nights spent either high as a kite or in fevered throes of withdrawal on his grandfather's sofa surface. As much as the Colonel had disapproved of Sherlock's habits and despite all their arguing on the matter, he wasn't the sort to refuse to see his druggie grandson at the end. Hell the man had even funded Sherlock's stays in rehab. What then was the point in letting his grandfather pass away without saying goodbye to his favourite grandson? Surely he died knowing of Sherlock's latest attempt of getting back on the straight and narrow? Or did he die thinking Sherlock was off shooting up in some dirty ally?

His brain whirs, contemplating every possible scenario. _Oh._ Sherlock's eyes widen in surprise at the sudden epiphany. They had been trying to protect him not his grandfather. In their overly sentimental misguided way they had assumed that his passing would trigger Sherlock into a relapse. Hell it must have been the Colonel's doing, having them pretend he was fine travelling the world on yet another cruise instead of breathing his last in some five star privately run nursing home. Sherlock wasn't sure why but somehow it hurts. The idea of his grandfather spending his last remaining hours worrying about him instead of making the most of the remaining time. He doesn't need protecting, he's not a child nor does he need treating as such.

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><p>Mycroft places a hand on his shoulder jostling Sherlock from his thoughts. Sombre music starts and the rest of the room of mourners stand up to sing a hymn. Sherlock stands with them, ignoring the protests of his frail convalescent body, determined to honour his grandfather with the rest of them.<p>

Sherlock's tongue trips up on unfamiliar words as he fights to control the sadness rising up inside of him. He casts a glance towards mummy, and the mere sight of her broken and weeping as his father holds her in his arms causes something to shatter in him too. The mask slips and the feelings he mostly manages to control come bubbling out. His throat starts to close up and his eyes begin to sting as tears leek down his chin. He brings a hand up to wipe away the tears but the effect is negligible. Mycroft offers him a hanky, which he takes begrudgingly. Trust his brother to have preprepared for this possibility. The song ends and an ancient army buddy of the Colonel's begins to give a reading, not that Sherlock takes it in, his eyes concentrating instead on the long elegant coffin laid out in the centre of the room his mind fixed on the man residing in it.

The simple service is over before he realises it, forcing Sherlock to attempt small talk with distant relatives and the elderly dying friends of the Colonel. The catering at the reception is horrible yet heavenly compared to the vile health food that is constantly shoved down him at the clinic so he shoves down handfuls of spring rolls and three of four mini sandwiches thankful that he is to be released soon.

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><p>Sherlock is still agonising over his grandfather's death in-between drug cravings when an appeal appears on screen rudely interrupting one of the dreadful gossipy daytime television shows he happens to be fond of. Disinterested Sherlock leans across the sofa stretching his long arms out so as to pick up the remote in order to change channels when something the presenter says catches his attention. Something his clinic therapist said flickers in his brain, something about doing nice things for others and trying to connect with the world instead of destroying himself with the drugs. Ridiculous drivel of course. Never the less for some inexplicable reason, Sherlock finds himself turning up the volume to learn more about the appeal encouraging people to send deserving solders serving abroad Christmas presents.<p>

Sherlock spends a great deal of time picking out the perfect gifts, not because he cares about some lonely soldier fighting in some far off country but because he has nothing better to do what with the recent dry spell of interesting murders. It takes him a week of shopping, of talking to stupid sales people and endless inquiries to the organisers (who incidentally seem to veto all of his best gift ideas) before finally deciding on sending a mix of Harrods toiletries**,** high factor sunscreen, long lasting biscuits, a smart bound leather journal, and a tin of mints. Against his better judgement Sherlock also writes and signs a Christmas card in order to placate the stern old biddy in charge of the gift collection.

He forgets about the whole affair almost as soon as the task is completed, for he suddenly finds himself investigating the curious double homicide of a magician and his assistant, both of whom have been found asphyxiated with balloon animals tied around their necks.

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><p><em><strong>Hey made a few spelling corrects to this Chapter but nothing major.<br>**_

_**while there are ways of sending care packages to solders serving abroad its not really possible to send items to solders (I kinda took a few liberties with the fic) however I do recommend you visit supportoursoldiers dot co dot uk**_

_**Also if you like my fics why not visit my tumblr page I'm ****paperprincearchive****  
><strong>_


	2. Chapter 1

Winter in Afghanistan is harsh and cold but that doesn't deter the fighting or the bloodshed. Nevertheless the mountain snow excites and amuses the newer lads who had mistakenly assumed the smouldering desert heats would continue right through to January. The snow reminds them of home John supposes, of white Christmases spent surrounded by family and love. Which is nice if you have that sort of thing waiting back home for you.

But he doesn't. For all intents and purposes Captain John Hamish Watson MD of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is utterly alone (save for the army of course, John hates to think were he would be without it's support). His so called parents may be alive but their relationship with him is strained almost to breaking point. It has been since they kicked him out on his 18th.

"Them and their fucking messed up ideals." He thinks lying on his bunk inside his tent, trying to blot out the seasonal cheer that surrounds him even in the midst of war. His father's words swim inside his head, cutting almost as harshly as they did on his birthday all those years ago.

"Men rely on no one but themselves son. They make their own way in life, forge their own path as it were. And well, you're a big lad now. It's time you moved on. Found your own way in the world." The words are not said unkindly but their true meaning is as clear to John as the packed duffel bag lying by the door. In some other family this might be perceived as some sort of joke followed by a hearty slap on the back and cake. But John's family isn't like that, his parents aren't like that, they're bastards, bloody mean bastards the lot them. Kicking him out just because they're finally able to get shot of him. The sting of their betrayal burns hotter during the holidays, it always has. Probably due to the near constant reminders that everyone else is wanted and loved, except for him.

Not that John cares of course. He's used to coming home to nothing and no one during the gaps between tours. He's used to his sister Harry refusing to answer his calls. And most of all he's used to the pity gifts from the lads. Used to getting clumsily wrapped second hand gifts from grateful soldiers, often some variant of sickly sweet fruit cake, or foul smelling aftershave or ugly patterned socks. And he's fine with it all really.

So he's hardly surprised when Billy on mail delivery corners him on the way back from dinner in order to hand him one of the welfare packages, that as a rule are sent by lonely old biddies who have nothing better to do then make jam and send soldiers knitted goods. Over the years he has received approximately three parcels of this kind along with five cards gushing with appreciation. Forcing a smile onto his face he thanks Billy for the gift and heads back to his tent to examine the rather large parcel.

It being boxing day there is no real need for John to wait before ripping into the package. A part of him itches to tear into the plain brown paper parcel and discover what mysteries lie beneath. Instead he examines every inch of the outside, taking in every detail including the label's curly unfamiliar scrawl and before committing them to memory. He revels in the scent of of ink and stamp glue momentarily wishing there was some way of making the smell linger forever before finally carefully prising open the corner of the package.

The paper dealt with John picks up the lid of rather a large and fancy shoe box. Closing his eyes John savours the feeling of excitement and curiosity for as long as possible for he is well use to the routine by now and knows that disappointment is sure to follow. It is after all difficult enough to buy presents for people you know, so buying for a stranger, almost impossible.

John takes a minute or two to prepare himself then opens his eyes ready to face disappointment. What he sees however stuns him, for the gifts he has been sent are far better than the normal pity goods. For one thing they are practical, and of good quality. No not good, excellent quality considering that more then the couple of quid has been spent on him. John is not used to having such first-class gifts but he recognises a few of the labels and the feel of real leather binding. Stunned John's legs give way, causing him to collapse onto his bed. Something unfamiliar rises in his chest and for once John feels amazingly special.

A cheesy Christmas card stands out amongst the rest of the neat packages, the front a printed replica of a child's Christmas drawing. Opening the card reveals a lengthy note far longer then the expected Merry Xmas often found printed on the inside of these things. Smiling John begins to read.

_Stranger, _

_I writing you to say that I have been coerced by Edith (the old bat in charge of this scheme) into writing a short note expressing my sincere wish you have a happy Christmas, despite the fact that:_

_I have never met you, nor is it likely that I shall, therefore my sentiment is hardly sincere or genuine and defiantly non of your concern._

_War zones are scarcely constructive to the seasonal spirit so it is doubtful that you will experience a truly happy Christmas._

_Additionally only 71.6% of the UK's population are Christian, as a result there is a considerable possibility that I have caused offence in sending you a card depicting what one can only assume is a 5 year old's interpretation of the nativity (why else would there be a lobster involved in the proceedings? once again the card wasn't my choice)._

John barely makes it past the third bullet point before he's laughing like a mad man at some strangers words. His smirk well and truly planted on his face John turns the card over to discover more words scrawled on the back.

_P.S do not worry about the cost of the gifts, I would have only spent the money on drugs..._

Along with the initials _SH_.

The strange note along with the cryptic signature piques John's interest, for his previous gift givers each provided a name and address. Surely his benefactor does not wish to remain anonymous? John turns back to the exquisite gifts in the hope of finding some clue regarding their sender. The practicality of the items suggests a man of some wealth, certainly not the sort of man John would normally associate with. That said this SH does not seem terribly pompous, for men of that sort talk only of themselves while this SH seems almost shy. A recluse perhaps? John's mind wanders back to the note on the back of the card about drugs. That was a joke right? The more he looks at the card the more his mind wonders. Might this SH be as lonely and damaged as he is?

John rummages through the contents of the box hoping to find an address or at the very least the name of his mysterious benefactor until the leather bound book catches his eye. John picks it up hoping for some clue about this mysterious SH. Upon closer inspection the book turns out to be a journal, its crisp white pages barren. Sighing John flicks the pages anyway dimly hoping to find something caught between the pages.

Luck seems to be on his side for once as out slips a small piece of paper. John watches it flutter to the ground before picking it up and turning it over. His breath hitches slightly upon reading the scrap of paper. Why on earth would someone pay that much for a journal? he wonders reading the invoice. Smirking slightly John tucks the paper into his jacket pocket before exiting his tent in order to borrow some stationary and write to this mysterious Mr Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><strong>Hey in case you were wondering the title of this fic is a reference to approximately how far it is between London and Afghanistan (presuming my research was correct!)<strong>

**Also I did do some research into the weather in Afghanistan before writing this fic and according to wiki it does snow there in the winters. If this or anything else is inaccurate please do not hesitate to let me know!**


	3. Chapter 2

The moment the letter falls onto his doormat Sherlock's interest is captivated, so much so he forgets his need for a cigarette fix and sleep, lots of sleep. No one writes any more, besides the bank companies. Correspondence is after all an outdated form of communication that has gone the way of the... Something large, reptilian and irrelevant. Despite his impressive mind Sherlock can't think of anyone with any cause to write to _him_. What family he has left prefer to use alternate means of communication (basically anything just short of clairvoyance). His numerous enemies prefer abduction and mind games. Even his clients prefer to call, email or text. The letter is therefore something of a puzzle.

Not a terribly challenging puzzle but a puzzle none the less. A glance at the handwriting confirms that the sender is male,unmarried, left handed and a former rugby player of no former acquaintance to Sherlock. He would recognise the handwriting otherwise. The stamp on the front is unusual as is the return address on the back for Sherlock does not know of any acquaintances currently living in Afghanistan. Especially ones called Captain John Watson. He pauses for a moment trying to work things through logically. Wasn't there some big war thingy going on in Afghanistan at the moment? An idea sparks in Sherlock's head. No surely not. He had been careful to avoid giving out his address hadn't he?

Of course he had. No the logical explanation,_ the simple explanation_ was that nosey Werther's Original eating old fart had divulged _his personal information_ to a stranger no less. No doubt she had thought she was doing the world a favour by playing cupid and "helping" two lonely strangers connect. Or some other rot. And now he was going to be murdered because of it. Of course he was, most likely because his bloody awful card had unknowingly upset someone with fucking guns and bombs at their disposal. Mycroft was right, the git, strangers were dangerous, and stupid (well okay he hadn't said that but they were) and should be avoided at all costs.

The rational (read boring) part of his brain tells him to just burn the bloody thing and delete the whole dismal attempt at benevolence from his memory banks. Fortunately the dull part of Sherlock is terribly small and therefore easily overpowered by the part of him that like to do fun things like solve murders. That part of him tells him to stop being such a girl about the whole thing and just read the damn letter, so that he can confirm his hypothesis and discover if the sender is indeed the soldier who received his Christmas present. It is therefore owing to Sherlock's boundless curiosity that he finally opens the letter written to him by Captain John Watson.

The blade of his letter opener makes short work of the fat envelope in his hands, opening it up to reveal several sheets of sky blue paper gently nestled together like a thick wad of cash. In the heart of it all lies a small white piece of paper. Impatient as usual Sherlock chooses to read the white slip first, his eye drawn to the neat cursive script scrawled over the dull printed text.

**I think you dropped this Mr Holmes :)**

Frowning Sherlock eyes the rest of the paper. Oh an invoice. How unexpected yet mildly entertaining. A small smirk creeps onto his face. "Maybe this Mr Watson is not so stupid after all" He thinks. A small bit of hope fills his chest. Maybe this Watson didn't hate his card after all. With one part of the mystery solved Sherlock turns his attention to the main body of the letter and begins to read.

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><p>Hey um so I hope you liked this chapter, sorry its short in comparison to the other two. It's actually quite hard to write out whole letters so I will be just doing extracts in future chapters. Also John's writing will be in bold and Sherlock's in Italic so as to avoid confusion. And you know this fic is leading towards slash okay just wanted to make that clear!<p> 


	4. Chapter 3

Sherlock has never been much of a writer, but somehow the words come easily to him when writing to John. Having never had cause to write to somebody before, Sherlock is not entirely sure what one normally writes about, but John doesn't seem to mind his lengthy ramblings on the various types of tobacco ash currently in production. Nor does he appear squeamish or unsettled by Sherlock's explicit descriptions of bodies be it part of an experiment or murder investigation. (Even if he does draw the line at letting Sherlock sending pictures of them to him for reference).

John is not an excellent writer, his letters are often far too short to be considered decent in Sherlock's personal opinion, but the way he writes about little things he misses and the things he looks forward to the most is endearing. John writes about what he can, namely his good days, the days when (almost) everybody lives. John doesn't talk about the bad days, the days when friends die, the days when help comes a little too late. Sherlock isn't really sure if he is allowed to. Even though he only writes half the story, John's letters are never boring. Despite his dismal writing John is an amazing storyteller, so much so that Sherlock often feels that he is there with John, beside him under the burning sun, watching John's men defuse a bomb as the timer ticks down, or observing John fighting to prevent some unlucky soldier from bleeding out.

Astonishingly John seems particularly fascinated by Sherlock's work as a Consulting Detective, often asking Sherlock to explain the details of his latest cases. Were it anybody else Sherlock might have assumed they were taking the piss out of his job (as is usual) but John is different. Through their slow yet dedicated correspondence it becomes apparent that John is a truly exceptional man, a curious mix of brave soldier and gentle caring doctor. From his letters Sherlock is able to deduce that John is funny and honest and strange only in that he has no ulterior motives in mind while actively seeking Sherlock's correspondence. He simply desires Sherlock's friendship.

Having lived all his 29 years without having someone he could call friend, to find one quite by accident is somewhat comical. Having waited so long to have a friend, Sherlock is far from disappointed in John. To put it simply John is unique for he does not even try to force Sherlock to change himself but rather accepts everything about Sherlock. As a result Sherlock finds himself trusting John whole heartedly, letting him deep within Sherlock's inner fortress and sharing secrets of utmost importance with John.

_Lestrade and the other Yarder's came over today to perform a drugs bust, not that I had anything for them to seize, I've given that all up John, I promise. Anyway I knew that one of them would try to steal some food from the kitchen while investigating (its happened before) so I obtained some fingers off of Molly and put them in a biscuit tin in order to freak them out a little, and it worked! Well for the most part, anyway. They did seem a little concerned when they found them, only one of them (Anderson) said something to my current landlord and now I have to find another place to live by the end of next week. I think I might try for something nearer the Thames this time..._

In no time at all John somehow becomes Sherlock's most favourite person in the world above both his brother and Lestrade (not that he tells either man for fear of hurting them). So much so that when John asks if Sherlock would like to converse via phone he leaps at the chance, even though it means Sherlock has to keep every fourth Wednesday evening free just on the off chance that John might be able to call. Whole evenings are spent miserably waiting by the phone like some girl waiting for a crush to call. Worse still are the frustratingly short telephone calls cut short by John's higher ups.

"**So who's winning X Factor then?"**

"_What's X Factor?" _

"_John why are you laughing?"_

"_John answer me!" _

Clunk

"_Are you still there? Hello John, John? Damn it"_

As annoying as it is Sherlock can't help but treasure each and every call they share as he gets to hear John's voice and know that for the moment John is safe and well. It's curious how vital John simple existence has become to Sherlock's life, considering that six months ago they were nothing more than strangers. Now they are best friends.

Despite the vast geographical distance between them, John becomes Sherlock's new hobby, his new addiction, the thing that keeps him sane and occupied in the lull between cases. Hours are spent simply rereading letter after letter until the pages are thin and worn.

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><p><span>Hey I hope you like this chapter. I actually plan on making this quite long fic with a total of 8 or so chapters. That said I have quite a lot of work to do in preparation for exams and such so don't be mad if I take forever to up date as I do plan on coming back eventually. Hopefully I will be able to do one more chapter before putting this on hiatus for a bit okay. But no promises.<span>


	5. Chapter 4

Warning intentional Americanisms used below! 

After two days of non stop travelling all John wants is a strong hot cup of tea and a cheap and greasy burger before falling asleep in a really nice bed. Having spent the last 9 hours squashed between two obese American business men with next to no leg room John is sore all over. Thankfully his one small carry-on lets him bypass the baggage claim altogether. A few more security checks and one rather enthusiastic pat down later and John finds himself in the welcome area at the arrivals gate. His eyes search the crowd straining to see over the top of peoples heads, dimly wondering if he has made some mistake in trusting a man who claims to be a Consulting Detective with a brother who is the British government.

After all who gets on a plane just because their pen-pal sends them plane tickets and a cryptic letter that reads: _There's a rumour that he's dead. But three more dead girls suggest otherwise. Either way she wants me to make sure. Come as soon as possible. Everything has been arranged. I'll be waiting. SH _

In the corner of his eye John catches sight of a small British flag and turns to glimpse pale hands holding onto a handmade sign that simply reads _John_.The crowds part slightly and suddenly John spots a face below the sign that is familiar, though only from photographs. A smile creeps across John's weary face as he stares at the handsome dark haired man waiting for him. Sherlock stands there trying to look cool in his short leather jacket and sunglasses but his sharp graphite grey eyes betray him as they anxiously scan the crowd searching for John. John quickly pushes through the multitude of tired tourists enveloping Sherlock's tall pale frame in an awkward rib bruising hug.

Unused to the the physical contact Sherlock momentarily stills beneath John who automatically tightens his grip, hugging Sherlock to him as tightly as is physically possible while still allowing him to breath. For the most part Sherlock stands there, passively letting John embrace him but not fully returning the hug either. Feeling slightly embarrassed John begins to let go of Sherlock's waist. As he does so Sherlock finally seems to figure out the mechanics of hugs, clumsily bringing his arms around John's middle. Somehow the two of them manage to collide into each other, falling into a big giggling heap on the floor. Recovering quickly the two of them escape into the harsh Florida sun on the hunt for the missing husband of Sherlock's old nanny Mrs Hudson nee Longbottom.

Quickly locating their rented car a minty blue convertible (an original and well maintained Ford Thunderbird) in the massive parking lot Sherlock dumps John's bag into the trunk of the car just as John sinks into the padded interior. Sherlock wastes no time sliding into the drivers seat before reaching over and pulling out a gun from the glove compartment. He hands it to John with a smile that promises adventure.

In no time at all the quote "simple case that's more of a favour then a challenge" has them involved in car chases, gun fights and most worryingly of all having dinner with the local Mafia. (Incidentally dinner ends up as a rather lovely affair once it has been established that the boss has no connection to the disappearance of Mr Hudson). And somehow even though they end up in jail twice (quite by accident) its better then the simple holiday away Sherlock had promised him weeks ago before the case had appeared. Not that John had anywhere else to spend his leave besides with the mad detective anyway.

As the end of his leave quietly approaches John begins to dread returning, for it means leaving his best friend behind. Not that John can't wait to see the smarmy bastard the two of them are currently hunting behind bars. Its just that after nearly three months together chasing a serial killer across state boundaries (and solving several smaller cases along the way) John simply cannot envisage life without Sherlock. Mostly because he can't image Sherlock surviving alone for so long without him. After all the man had the survival skills of a gnat. Over the course of the trip John had lost count of the number of times his army skills had saved the other man's life, mostly just from angry non case related strangers.

Social skills aside John cannot imagine waking up and not finding the detective leaning over him trying to measure his breathing patterns, or measuring the curve his cranium. Can't imaging being without brilliant, rude, arrogant Sherlock who can take apart strangers within minutes yet desperately desires John's complete attention like a child monopolising a toy. Not that John minds going along with any of it, playing Sherlock's assistant, his partner or his boyfriend depending on what the situation calls for. They go through false identities like teabags slowly and carefully closing the net on Mr Hudson.

Trying to suppress a giggle John makes his way back from the restaurant bathroom to the booth where his twin brother is currently sitting. His identical twin brother. God, Sherlock was right people were idiots, willing to believe the lies they were fed as long as the packaging was pretty. There was after all only so much that matching sweaters could do to make a sprightly 6 foot tall dark haired man look like a 5 foot 6 blond haired army doctor.

The door to the old fashioned diner jingles as John takes his seat opposite Sherlock. Picking up a garish beer stained menu John casts a glance over at Sherlock who is busily perusing the Friday specials. Completely adsorbed in watching Sherlock cutely bite at his bottom lip, John barely notices the old man entering the establishment, taking a stool at the bar.

"John I think we may have to skip pudding" Says Sherlock tilting his head awkwardly to the left in a way John secretly finds slightly adorable.

"Hold on I haven't had my main yet... oh right" Replies John following the incline of Sherlock's head and catching sight of their serial killer who is angrily arguing with a tall blonde waitress and her manager. "I think I'd better call Palmer" Sherlock nods in agreement but before they can call the sheriff, Mr Hudson has pulled out a gun and taken the waitresses hostage. John reaches for his gun while the rest of the restaurant cowers under tables. Its not there. Swearing silently John remembers leaving it in the car.

The next few minutes pass by in a blur as John takes down the serial killer with ease, breaking the man's wrist and several other bones in the process of wrestling the gun from his grip. By the time the police arrive the situation is under control with Sherlock standing guard over the murderer as John tends to a few customers suffering from shock.

Whipping out his phone Sherlock smiles as he dials a familiar number. "It's over, Mrs Hudson we got him."

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><p><span>Note I tried using some Americanisms in this chapter to help establish the fact that they are in America.<span> Also _Sherlock and John were about 29 and 32 at the start of the story (sorry I forgot to mention it earlier!)_


	6. Chapter 5

The most difficult thing Sherlock finds about having a best friend is keeping it to himself. For as much as he longs to let everyone know about John he can't help but feel that it's a bit not good to show off in front of everyone else. John is after all his friend and Sherlock isn't about to share him. Especially as John's army leave is so short. In the end he decides the best option is not to flaunt John but not hide him away either. So it proves somewhat frustrating when people see but fail to observe his new relationship with his friend John.

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><p>Sally is the first to spot something odd when the freak returns from America tanned and slightly chubbier. He also returns with a mountain of gruesome and strange "holiday" snaps no one in the yard particularly wants to see but are forced to anyway (until the projector breaks down mid-way through and saves them all that is).<p>

Sherlock's outstanding performance in America somehow manages to convince the higher ups that he is more than just a nutter with far too much time on his hands. Deciding he is more help than hindrance they put him on the official pay role for Scotland Yard, forcing the homicide division to let him in on difficult cases. Why Sally cannot quite fathom. After all they can manage perfectly fine without the smug git.

That said the bastard does seem to excel in his role as an authorized consultant though if anything the new title and the badge seem to make him smugger, more confident within himself as he prattles off long complex deductions in a manner befitting the class know it all.

To make matters worse for some inexplicable reason Donavan finds herself with a Sherlock sized shadow quietly trailing about besides her and Lestrade during lunchtimes in the staff canteen. It's almost as if he's trying to be their friend. Sally knows better of course. Sociopaths don't have friends after all.

Try as she might all Sally's efforts to avoid Sherlock prove futile. Irregular breaks, different seats and disguises the lot. It's as if he has some sort of highly illegal tracking device installed on her person. (Not that she wants to think about that.) In the end she just gives up and tries to blot out the majority of his ramblings as she drinks her tea. She has nearly mastered it too, focusing her mind on a beautiful bright tropical beach with lots and lots of palm trees instead of the tall lanky git in front of her. Her mind is therefore almost completely elsewhere as Sherlock berates the feeble attempt of hospitality exerted by the caterers when something odd in the conversation catches her attention, pulling her back into reality.

"Sorry what was that last bit you said?"

Sherlock glances at her irritably but repeats himself none the less.

"I said it's a pity I prefer my tea in the same way I prefer men, hot and sweet for there never seems to be any sugar left in this place."

Sally's brain takes a minute to process this before giving up and crashing.

"You're gay?" She blurts rather loudly causing several other tables to glance over towards them.

"Homosexual yes, but I don't see how that is going to resolve the current sugar shortage. I would suggest you arrest the cafeteria manager for pilfering thousands of pounds of taxpayer's money but as Lestrade is so fond of reminding me, that's not your division."

Before Sally can formulate some sort of reply, Sherlock's mobile goes off. His customised ring tone (the roar of a lion) barely sounds before he's up and answering ecstatically, so ecstatically in fact that Sally can't help but wonder if there's another serial killer on the loose. Even more strangely Sherlock is actually smiling as he goes the phone practically glued to his ear as he does so. It's only once he's left that it even occurs to her to wonder who on earth would be calling Sherlock of all people.

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><p>They are at a crime scene when Anderson notices the plastic wristband on the Detective's arm, the distinctive bright red bracelet clashing horrendously against his dark tailored suit. Initially mistaking it for some kind of girlish fad Anderson spends the best part of ten minutes working on a cruel put down before catching sight of the words "Help for Heroes" emblazoned on the side in bold white letters. Staring down at Sherlock Anderson realises for the first time he is looking at a man. A man with a life outside of the station. One that revolves around more than mysteries. A man, who despite his frozen demeanour has a heart just like everyone. Busy searching for clues neither Sherlock nor anyone else notices his sudden epiphany.<p>

The brief euphoria he feels as a result of his revelation is quickly ruined by guilt as he recalls cutting up a stupid costumed teddy bear he had found during the last police "check-up" of Sherlock's place. Anderson hadn't planned on doing anything until he had seen the carefully maintained bow tied around its neck. Jealous rage had consumed him upon the sight of the Christmas red and green on that bear. At the time he had thought it unfair that a freak like Sherlock had someone who cared enough to give him a gift like that when Anderson's own wife had spent her Christmas with her driving instructor. Now all he feels is shame as he remembers the tiny camouflage gear and beret the teddy bear had worn along with the quiet crumpled look Sherlock had given upon first stumbling upon the tiny pieces of stuffing lying amongst the brown packaging of the parcel. The more he thinks about it the more ashamed Anderson feels. He had known when he did it that the toy had been sent by post by someone familiar with the freaks ridiculous soft toy obsession. It was only now however that he realised that the gift giver was probably off serving abroad. "No wonder the poor sod had threatened to press charges over a £30 bear" he thinks trying not to look Sherlock in the eye as he begins to explain how and why the sister did it.

* * *

><p>Some day she will say no to running errands all over London for a man who is completely oblivious to her affection for him. "Someday but not today" thinks Molly as she makes her way up eight flights of stairs to the attic apartment that currently belongs to Sherlock. Apart of her can't help but wonder why the man needs two small tins of Violet White Dulux paint. Surely it cannot be for some experiment? That said he has done rather a lot of dubious things in the name of science over the course of their acquaintance. Another smaller voice in her head wonders if it could be some sort of elaborate plan to get her to come over to his place so he can confess his undying romantic feelings for her.<p>

Reaching the top of the stair well she takes a moment to regulate her breathing and collect her thoughts. Which is just as well for what she sees next is surprising to say the least. The door to the stuffy cramped apartment is flung wide open. The normal mess of papers and knick-knacks have been cleared away and most of the furniture is covered in white sheets. Stranger still is the sight of a dishy tanned man in grubby paint stained jeans singing along to an ancient pop song with a paintbrush in his hand. The heavy tins slip from her sweaty grip hitting the floor with a bang but not spilling. Molly feels herself blushing as the man turns to where she stands in the door way.

He smiles at her gently and waves her in. Crossing the room he turns down the speakers so they can talk.

"You must be Molly right?" He says offering her a paint stained hand to shake then thinking better of it and with drawing it.

"Sherlock said you'd be over with the paint for the edging." He says running a hand through his short blond hair.

"Thanks for doing that by the way, I would've gone myself but well Sherlock didn't leave me with any keys so I'm stuck here until he gets back." He laughs a little at that and Molly finds herself smiling back.

He makes her a cup of tea and the two of them talk about the plans for Sherlock's flat until the paint fumes become too much for Molly. It's not until later that Molly realises she hadn't even thought to ask the name of the friendly decorator.

A few days later Molly finds herself on yet another errand for Sherlock who is busy cataloguing bullet wounds in the morgue. This time when she walks into the building site that is Sherlock's flat she is more prepared. She is still surprised however to see the same workman under the sink, working on the plumbing.

"So you're a bit of a plumber as well" she says trying not to sound too surprised (Sherlock does have very interesting associates after all).

"Not really but enough to get by I suppose"

"Oh well maybe once you've finished refitting Sherlock's plumbing you could do mine? Only it takes ages for the hot water to heat up in the mornings"

John looks at her both amused and slightly surprised.

"I'm not really a handyman you know, I'm only fixing up the place so Shirley can get the deposit back when he leaves next month."

"Oh my god, I'm sorry I just assumed Sherlock was paying you." She replies cringing at her words.

"Mates don't have to pay each other."

And just like that Molly understands. He's one of Sherlock's fiercely loyal former clients who drop everything just to accommodate his needs. Well it's not as if Molly's any better doing anything she can to try and appease her crush.

He wipes his hands on a nearby towel before digging into the bag of sandwiches Molly had so generously delivered. He pauses unpacking momentarily in order to hand her a packet of sandwiches.

Still mortified Molly tries to politely refuse them and go, but he presses them into her hand along with a note anyway.

_Molly the salmon is for you, enjoy lunch and try not to ogle John's bum too much as he works. SH_

Suddenly everything seems less awful as she bites into smoked salmon which is her favourite. (Not that she recalls ever telling Sherlock that).

* * *

><p>"I told you that interview would be a complete waste of time that women had no clue what she was saying she hadn't even seen the murderer!"<p>

"Yes well now we have to start looking for fresh leads!"

"Better fresh leads then false ones." Huffs Sherlock flipping through the case file again dramatically.

"By the way where did you get that picture, the one you showed Mrs Hunter? The one of that blond guy in a jumper that you lied and said was the victim?"

"That's nothing, it was just a photo I had in my wallet."

"Why?"

Sherlock doesn't answer for his paper work is suddenly very interesting.

* * *

><p>The sight of a short bleary eyed man answering the door is enough to frustrate the entire voluntary drug squad. Clearly Sherlock had failed to notify anyone he had moved yet again.<p>

The cardigan wearing man at the door just stands there patiently waiting for Dimmock to speak. Embarrassed he mutters a quick "Wrong house sorry" and turns to leave before they ruin the rest of his evening as well.

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><p><span>Hey I know what I said about the updates but I just couldn't resist teasing you a little. Next update will be better I promise.<span>


	7. Chapter 6

Sherlock wakes up especially early on the last day of John's latest bout of leave intent on making it a special one for John. It's hardly ten minutes past three when he rolls into the kitchen bundled in bed clothes intent on figuring out how to work the toaster he is fairly confident he owns. His groggy mind is so fixed on planning breakfast for John that it takes Sherlock a moment to notice his brother sitting at the kitchen table licking chocolate icing from his fingers.

In a flash Sherlock is by his brother's side peering into a round tin which was labelled human intestines but in reality housed a rather expensive chocolate velvet cake. The cake was still there only now there was slightly less of it. Trust Mycroft to find the cake despite all the effort Sherlock put into hiding it out of John's reach. Glaring at his brother Sherlock carefully places the lid back on the cake that now reads "appy rthday".

"Surely you can by now afford to buy your own cake brother dear? Or do you just take pleasure in spoiling my plans" He says returning to his original task of making breakfast.

Mycroft flashes him a familiar smile, one that says I have no idea how that cake disappeared but it was certainly nothing to do with me.

"I simply came to thank you for finding the missing Swedish politician and let you know that your credit cards and bank accounts have now been reactivated. By the way you do realise there's a scruffy man in a jumper asleep on your couch in the other room?" The question- is he another of your unsavoury homeless associates? Remains unasked, but Sherlock knows what he's brother is thinking anyway.

"Yes I am aware of him Mycroft. That man happens to be my friend John." Replies Sherlock as he fills up the kettle and tries not to hit his brother in retaliation.

"You don't have friends"

"I have John"

"Since when? America?"

"You know as well as I that John is not American by the stubble on his cheek. Are you honestly telling me you haven't been reading through my mail?"

Mycroft doesn't reply but then he doesn't need to for the look on his face says it all.

"I think you had better work on your surveillance methods brother dear. You're getting sloppy."

Shortly after that Mycroft leaves, politely wishing a sleepy half-dressed John happy birthday as he slips past him in the door way.

"Who was that?"

"My arch enemy, I made tea want some?"

"Your arch enemy right, why am I not surprised?" Replied John, sitting down beside Sherlock. The tip of his nose crumpling up like it always does when Sherlock has done something a bit not good. Sherlock takes a sip of tea and tries to logically deduce what he has done to upset John in the space of less than ten minutes. Nothing comes immediately to mind so instead Sherlock pushes a plate of burnt toast towards John, hoping to appease him with it.

John ignores the toast and just stares at the mug of tea in front of him not touching it. Unsure what to say Sherlock lets the silence wash over them as John tries to find a way to express himself. When he finally does, he's calm and quiet and completely upset.

"Sherlock are you ashamed of being friends with me? Is that why haven't you introduced me to anyone? Am I just some pet that you take pity on during the holidays?"

His outburst over John avoids Sherlock's gaze but his hands shake slightly on the table. Sherlock's heart stutters at John's words. He swallows his throat suddenly dry. A part of Sherlock wants to tell John he's being ridiculous, that he's more vital than breathing.

Instead he leans over and takes John's hand in his own in a manner he hopes is acceptable.

"I don't have friends. I've just got one and that's you John." Sherlock says quietly embarrassed at having admitted something so personal but then John's squeezing his hand and smiling at him in a way that makes Sherlock's face grow hot and uncomfortable yet good.

The two of them sit there in comfortable silence drinking tea trying to ignore the fact that John has to leave in a few hours. Letting go of John's hand, Sherlock silently passes the cake tin to John hoping that it will please him despite the considerably large chunk of missing cake and the distinct lack of candles (Sherlock had been banned from any form of open flame by his latest landlord after one small accident with a Bunsen burner). John takes one wary look at the tin but opens it none the less.

Sherlock is not sure which he likes better the look of surprise and happiness on John's face upon receiving the cake or the way he doubles up in laughter when Sherlock begins to sing him happy birthday in Latin.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur and all too soon John is all packed up with the taxi outside waiting for him. The strange achy feeling Sherlock has when John is not around returns and John's hug only seems to make it worse. Wrapped tightly in John's arms it occurs to Sherlock that this might be the last time he sees John, who is after all returning to a dangerous war zone where anything could happen to him. The thought completely crushes him. The tears stream down his face as he clings helplessly to John, silently wishing for him to stay.

John runs his hands through Sherlock's curls as he mummers comforting words in his ear trying to sooth him. And then suddenly John is kissing him. The angles not quite right as Sherlock's so much taller than John so they end up bumping noses and Sherlock doesn't know what to do with his hands and it's all unexpected and strange and new and utterly wonderful. "_And oh the endorphins are simply wonderful and why hasn't he tried it before"_ He thinks whining John's name while pinned against his magnificent lips. Sherlock tries to take a moment to catalogue the sensation of John's lips pressed against Sherlock's, but then John does something wonderful with his tongue and Sherlock's forgets how to breath.

And then the moment is over, ruined by the stern bleat of the cab driver's horn cruelly reminding them of John's imminent departure.

* * *

><p><span>Sorry for ending it there but don't worry more is still to come!<span>

Also I have an actual plan for this story all written out so don't worry about me losing interest half way through! I have no clue how long this story will be as I have plenty of drama and chapters left to write.


	8. Chapter 7

Once John leaves Sherlock spends an entire week trying to figure out his feelings and his relationship with John. It takes a while but eventually he admits (to himself) that he is totally besotted with John. He also realises he that he actually wants to be John's boyfriend and has a full blown panic attack. He has never wanted to be courted before nor has he any experience in regard to love. As a result he has no idea how to woo John. Eventually he decides to just write to him and confess.

Calmly and rationally he proceeds to write the declaration. He promptly bins it. He tries again and writes another letter. He bins that one as well. He writes several more before running out of paper. He goes shopping to get some more supplies, buying some alcohol and cigarettes at the same time. Sherlock smokes the entire packet and drinks a glass of wine. He then begins to write John the perfect letter. It takes him most of the evening and several more glasses of cheap rosé to complete it. Satisfied at last Sherlock reads the letter through for errors before finally succumbing to his fatigue.

* * *

><p><em>John,<em>

_I feel I am significantly drunk enough to admit that there are three things I simply cannot live without; central heating, tea and John Watson. Of these three things you are the most important to me. _

_Before you kissed me I told you that you were my best friend and you are. However I want us to be more than that. For all my powers of deduction I do not profess to understand your motives for the kiss we shared (I have my theories but fear my judgment regarding this matter utterly biased). As it is I can only hope that having had time to think things over you do not regret your actions. I hope you want us to be more as well._

_When it comes to matters regarding the heart I find myself completely English, for I cannot speak easily of them, especially when it is my heart. Even so I cannot bear the thought of keeping my feeling secret from you any longer. I have been in denial for far too long. Since before the first time you saved me from kidnappers. Possibly even before America. _

_I adore you John. I did not realise this before we kissed but now I have, I realise I have fallen irreversibly in love with you. I adore your cuddly jumpers and the way your eyes sparkle in the rain. I think you are brilliant. I adore the horrid nickname you gave me and the way you fuss over me when I'm hurt. Your presence makes everything else a thousand times more tolerable and I love you for that. I love you in every meaning of the word. _

_Before you I had prepared myself to spend my life alone. Since meeting you I feel this is no longer a possibility. You have exposed a part of me I did not think existed. Before you the idea of love terrified me but now the thought of spending anything less than the rest of my life besides you is unbearable torture._ _I wish I could say I was willing to settle for even smallest corner of your heart, just so long as you allow me to remain by your side. But I can't. I want more than that, I need more than that. You have given me a bite of the apple and now I hunger for more of your love._

_Eternally yours _

_Sherlock_

* * *

><p>Its late afternoon by the time Sherlock finally stirs to find himself on his couch half curled up against the second bottle of Tesco rosé.<p>

He rediscovers the letter soon after waking and decides against drinking ever again. He looks the letter over again and promptly changes his mind. What had he been thinking? He couldn't send this love note and be able to look John in the face ever again. Hell he doubted John would ever want to see him again if sent this rubbish. Honestly the letter was almost as bad as poetry. John didn't love him; it isn't possible, making this letter a waste of time.

What he needs is a letter that will save their friendship not ruin it completely. Picking up a pen Sherlock begins to write another letter, one devoid of soppy unrequited emotions. By the time Sherlock has perfected the second letter its way past dinnertime (not that he notices of course).

Lestrade suddenly breezes in, just as he's in the middle of hunting for an envelope. Sherlock freezes and quickly hides letter number two on his messy kitchen table, not wanting to be teased about his doomed romance.

It's dark by the time Lestrade leaves but together they've managed to solve two grisly murders from just the case notes and a few photographs so Sherlock isn't too upset at the interruption, even though it means he has to sprint to catch the last collection of the day.

It is not until a few days later when an experiment explodes and ruins most of the papers on his table that Sherlock discovers he has made a mistake and sent John the wrong letter. Upon discovering this Sherlock has another panic attack and several more cigarettes before succumbing to the realisation that he will just have to wait and let John decide how to proceed.

A few days later Sherlock is sitting on his own in a tiny upmarket café he frequents purely for the hot chocolate when he is ambushed by a burly man with a laptop.

"How's it going Shirley?" Says the strange smiling man as if the two of them are childhood friends. He takes the seat across from Sherlock and opens the laptop up in front of him.

"I bet you weren't expecting this eh?" he says before adding. "I'm Thomas by the way, I'm sure the Captain mentioned me?"

Confused Sherlock shakes his head wishing for the odd man to disappear and leave him in peace.

"Ah well never mind, he said you weren't really the chatty type so I think I'll just let him to get on with it then" replies Thomas swirling the laptop around to face Sherlock before getting up and walking away, leaving his laptop still in front of Sherlock.

Confused Sherlock glances at the screen and gets the shock of his life to see John smiling back at him via Skype.

"You are a complete and utter idiot.

Sherlock that kiss meant the world to me. When I left I thought I'd ruined everything. When you just stood there frozen, I thought I'd broken you or something. I've been going mad and then you go and send me that letter. You're a git for thinking I didn't feel the same. Of course I love you! Sherlock I've been in love with you for months now. Hell everyone on the base is fed up with me 'cause I just won't shut up about you!

Sherlock you are the thing that keeps me going on my worst days. I spend every minute of my leave with you because I want to be with you. I want to make you pancakes. I want to kiss you. I want to spend evenings cuddling on the sofa with you. I want to hold your hand and make you coffee and maybe plan a life with you.

Now look it took me a lot of effort and favours to call you like this and I don't have much time left and well I realise you're completely awful at this so I'm going to ask you a question. But first Sherlock promise me your answer will be yes."

Sherlock looks at him slightly confused but euphoric.

"All right."

"Will you go out with me?"

"Yes." Replies Sherlock is instantaneously.

"As in date?"

"Yes"

"Right well good, just making sure you understood my meaning."

The beginnings of tears well up in Sherlock's eyes as John smiles at him.

"I love you"

"I love you too idiot"

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><p><span>Hey so I probably won't be able to update again for while but I hope this tides you over for a while.<span> **  
><strong>


	9. Chapter 8

Note potential triggers: gay bashing, mentions of past abuse and rape.

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><p>The next few months in Afghanistan are in arguably the hardest, for now a significant part of John desperately longs to be back in England by Sherlock's side. Nights are spent dreaming of wild curly dark locks and midnight chases down dark London alleyways. More often than not these dreams are more vivid in nature then he would like to admit and frequently he wakes half expecting to find himself to be in the middle of a crime scene instead of the dry Afghan desert.<p>

As challenging as life in the middle of conflict is John is beginning to finally understand the draw of civilian life, the joy of having someone to come back home to and the pain of causing them worry. Vacations which once were a dreaded yet forced activity that was ultimately wasted at card tables in dirty dingy establishments are now precious for they are spent with someone who finds his very presence fascinating.

Whether he knows it or not Sherlock has changed John for the better, for the first time he can properly join in on discussions of home without being reminded of his manipulative Stepmother and drunken half-sister. Now he has someone he can talk about with pride, someone whose photograph he can show off and tell stories about.

* * *

><p>Sure coming out (not that John really agrees with labels, he just happens to have fallen in love with Sherlock, a man) made things a little awkward between him and some of the guys. They'd mostly managed to worked things through with a little help from Anita who was part of the bomb disposal squad. She had sweetly pointed out to the delusional minority that were worried about John trying something on with them that there were more important matters at hand like trying not to get shot at. Not that John needs her to stand up for him, but the sentiment is nice. For the most part John carries on as he always has and nothing much changes except now he sits at slightly different tables during lunch and has several former buddies. Their rejection stings a little but John has plenty of buddies and people drift apart all the time. It is after all hardly his fault they are single minded pricks.<p>

Christmas rolls around again and for once John manages to get two weeks leave in December to share with Sherlock. They're the wrong two weeks but John treasures them all the same, pleased to be able to spend time with Sherlock.

* * *

><p>Having smartened himself up in a cramped toilet stall, John stands outside the busy train station clutching an expensive bouquet of blue roses, scanning the crowd milling about for his gorgeous model like boyfriend. John spies him flying up the street moments later, his long grey coat flapping behind him as he drags a scowling petulant teen over towards John. Sherlock grins at him seemingly unconcerned at the handcuff on his left wrist that is effectively chaining him to the grumpy brat beside him.<p>

"Good day at work?" He asks raising an eyebrow.

"Yes" replies Sherlock somewhat breathlessly but defiantly pleased to see him.

"I caught a murderer" He says lifting the handcuffs up so John can see his prize. A few members of public exchange concerned glances having overheard and hurry on.

"It was just a stupid dog" Grumbles the teen shuffling his feet awkwardly.

"It's still murder" retorts Sherlock examining the flowers now in his hands.

A grin stretches across John's face. Trust Sherlock to bring his work with him rather than be late to pick him up. "God I've missed this crazy marvellous man" He thinks pulling Sherlock into a quick kiss that Sherlock happily returns. Together they return the kid into police custody and slink off for a celebration curry.

* * *

><p>Everything is going great until on the way back from the restaurant John tries to take Sherlock's hand in his. While not overly affectionate Sherlock is slowly becoming acclaimed to John's little touches and has even initiated some himself. So he's faintly surprised when Sherlock stiffens in his grasp, but then John remembers his earlier issue with hugging and assumes that hand holding is just yet another foreign concept to the detective.<p>

They're halfway home when someone yells at them from across the street. The first shout is barely audible above the roar of late night traffic but the second time John catches the homophobic slur of a drunken man. It's late and all John wants to do is collapse on the couch with Sherlock and cuddle and besides John's much heard much worse abuse fall from his stepmother's lips so he just sticks his middle finger up at the man and tries to carry on walking his head held high but the flash of fear that had filled Sherlock's eyes at the stranger's words make it difficult.

They round the corner and Sherlock suddenly rips his hand out of John's grasp. Sherlock's erratic breathing forms a thick cloud of white as he shudders and convulses in terror. Sherlock's fist clench tightly as he breaks down on the snow covered street. Concern fills John as he watches Sherlock unsure how to help.

"Sherlock are you all right?" Asks John wanting to reach out and comfort him but unsure what good that would do given Sherlock's current state.

"I'm fine…" He replies his breathing returning to normal but his voice still somewhat shaky and nervous.

"No you're bloody not" Thinks John but he doesn't press the issue and they spend the rest of the walk back to Sherlock's place is completed in silence.

Sherlock lets them in and goes to the window. John goes to turn a light on, only to discover Sherlock has forgotten to pay the electric bill again. Sighing he stumbles slightly in the dark before lighting the candles on the table.

"I appreciate your concern John, it was nothing. I was just being ridiculous that's all. I didn't mean to upset you." Sherlock says suddenly, staring out the grubby window his head turned away from John. John knows Sherlock's watching him in the glass waiting to see his reaction. It's almost as if he's waiting to see if John will come to senses and reject him, for what John isn't quite sure though he probably blames himself for ruining their date. Which is frankly ridiculous, it was the drunk that was the problem not Sherlock.

"Look I'm a doctor I know a panic attack when I see one. Was it those things that man said? Just ignore them. Look he's not important and there is nothing wrong with us got that?" He says resting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock seems to hesitate momentarily before turning to meet John's gaze, looking completely vulnerable for once.

"It wasn't that John" He says quietly. "I'm used to being called names, it's just tonight was so similar… it was as if someone had hit refresh. Everything I'd tried to delete about that night just came back and for a moment you were him and I just panicked."

"What happened?" Asks John worry filling him.

Sherlock doesn't answer but pours himself a shot of whisky and slumps down in his leather armchair. He waves a hand, indicating that John should take a seat as well. Cautiously John takes the ratty plaid lounger besides Sherlock waiting for the younger man to speak, to explain his troubles.

"When I was younger" He starts shakes his head ever so slightly then begins his story again. "When I was at university there was a band I particularly enjoyed listening to called Norfolk, mostly because their music annoyed the rest of my halls in a way that a 2AM violin performance could not replicate."

"Anyway one night they were in town and performing in the local student haunt, a dive of a club responsible for much hearing damage that served a peculiar alcoholic beverage called the bull terrier. With nothing better to do while my room mate Sebastian was entertaining a girl in our room I went to see the band, using a fake ID to get into the club."

"While there I met a young man when he spilled the aforementioned drink on me. He bought me a drink as an apology and I discovered his name was Victor Trevor. He was also a fan of the band and not completely boring. We hung out and I danced with him for a while."

"It was late and he offered to walk me back to my halls and I accepted, having made it clear that I was not the sort of chap who went home and fornicated with blokes I'd met only hours ago. He held my hand as we stumbled back in the early hours. Two streets away from our destination we were set upon by a gang of drunken Homophobes. Victor ran away and left me there." Sherlock's voice stills as if unable to force the next words out.

Having listened patiently John finds himself unable to stand the suspense, certain that the story doesn't end well. He waits until Sherlock has swallowed the last dregs of his drink before asking him to go on. Only when John tries to his mouth is suddenly full of cotton balls choking him. Sherlock looks at him with eyes on the verge of tears.

John's heart tears at the sight of him, his wonderful, amazing Sherlock so terribly haunted by the ghosts of his past curled up on himself in his chair. John's body moves automatically, getting up out of his chair and falling to his knees beside Sherlock. Tentatively he slowly reaches out to take Sherlock's hand so as to try and avoid startling Sherlock further. Sherlock hesitates only slightly before accepting the offered appendage. John kisses the back of it and clutches it tightly. They sit together in silence for a while; Sherlock in his chair with John knelt at his feet on the floor. John's thumb gently strokes Sherlock's hand in a comforting manner as he waits for Sherlock to find his voice again.

"I was just 17 and there were five of them. I tried to defend myself…" His voice shakes as he speaks and John finds himself unable to stop himself from pulling Sherlock onto his lap. Sherlock's left arm snakes around him while the other clutches at John's jumper his long nails digging in to his shoulder. John returns the awkward hug, his lips placing ghost kisses along the long expanses of pale neck.

"They didn't…" John asks in between kisses unable to finish his sentence, his voice hoarse and dry and his stomach threatening to empty itself,horrified at the thought of someone doing that to his love.

"No of course not" Sherlock_ s_naps with a hiss, grabbing John's chin so their eyes meet.

"I am virginal, untouched." He growls, stressing each syllable over and over with such intensity that John cannot doubt his sincerity. Sherlock has never given himself to anyone before John. After one horrific night he's never trusted anyone enough to let them try to love him. Sherlock's grey eyes gleam almost silver in the near darkness, challenging John to call him a liar, to run and let his demons destroy him all over again. Telling him to leave now or stay forever. John stares at the beautiful unloved creature in his arms that is called monster by so many and cannot imagine breaking Sherlock's fragile heart without destroying his own first.

The half-finished story sits uneasy between them and as much as John would like to have it end there, he knows real life isn't like that. The story doesn't stop there with the boy in the dark frightened for his life. The boy is grown up and lying in his arms and somewhere in between something happened to make him so distrusting and weary of the world. And as much as he wants to John can't change the past, no matter how horrible. He can only offer comfort and a sympathetic ear.

"What happened then?"

"It was hardly a fair match, there were just too many of them. They grabbed hold of me and beat me bloody, kicking and punching me until I lost consciousness."

"According to the police reports, a homeless woman named Gloria Scott found me sometime later and raised the alarm. I was too badly concussed to tell the doctors anything, let alone my real name. With my face severely swollen and bruised they had to use my dental records to identify me.

"I spent the next several months confined to bed recovering from several broken bones including two cracked ribs and severe organ damage. During that time I completed my dissertation from my hospital bed. After that I assumed love was a dangerous disadvantage and closed myself off from everyone who wasn't blood."

"Until me" Says John finally understanding just how much of an exception he is. For all of Sherlock's defences John has somehow captured his heart and made him feel things he has spent years running from.

"Yes until you" Murmurs Sherlock in agreement. They sit together in silent contemplation until the last of the candles flickers and dies. Untangling himself from John's arms Sherlock presses a soft kiss to the side of John's cheek and heads to his room. He pauses briefly at the door.

"Thank you for being so understanding John" He says quietly when he means to say "_Thank you for loving me_". It doesn't matter though for John knows what Sherlock means all the same.

* * *

><p><em><span>Hey sorry to leave you in the lurch for so long but this chapter was hard to write. I did not mean to cause offence by any of the issues raised in this chapter. I tried to cover things in a sensitive manner and well I hope I managed to achieve that.<span>_

_I just thought I should also note that Sherlock would not normally be completing a dissertation at 17 as at that age he should still be in sixth form collage rather than his final year of university but then he is a genius. (Also at 17 he shouldn't really have been at the club as the legal drinking age is 18 in Britain but its not uncommon for teens to do so)._


	10. Chapter 9

Just a mini fill sorry! I am busy but will try to post another chapter soon!

* * *

><p>The sunlight streaming through a gap in his curtains and into his room is not easy to ignore but Sherlock puts up with it dreading the embarrassing moment he faces upon getting up and seeing John. The little sleep he has somehow managed to acquire does nothing to help with the odd mix of worry, reassurance, embarrassment and happiness churning inside of him as a result of their talk last night. Sherlock muses slightly about the strangeness of human nature, for he has missed and wanted John for months but now having him here in his flat Sherlock feels suddenly shy. The honest admittance of his complete lack of experience in love plays a large part to his current embarrassment for he is loath to admit weakness to anyone. It is after all slightly ridiculous to be still a virgin at 32. (Not that he is likely to remain one for much longer if things between him and John work out the way he hopes).<p>

Lying on his back, stretched out on his small bed with his feet where his head should be, he calculates the probability of a successful escape attempt and the likelihood that John would notice his sudden disappearance. Even in his sleep addled state it doesn't take him long to realise his plan is made difficult by the hazardous layout of the flat and the lack open-able windows in his room (not that climbing out of the window on the fifth floor was a good idea anyway). Sighing he abandons his plans in favour of lying tangled up in his warm covers wondering what he should actually do to resolve the current awkward situation.

It's almost laughable really, him hiding away in his room unsure what to do and say, absolutely terrified about fucking everything up. Most people he doesn't give a toss about, doesn't care what they think. John is different to them. He's ingrained into Sherlock's very being. He's the only person he can completely trust and the only companion he has ever wanted. Before fear had kept him away from relationships but he doesn't have that with John. John makes him feel safe and loved.

A part of him wonders how given his years of strict dedication to the work he had managed to get himself such a wonderful and understanding boyfriend, one who unlike the rest of the population of this dull planet actually likes him for his mind (among other things).

* * *

><p>He's busy planning their retirement in the country with bees and a cottage when John appears in the doorway carrying a mug of hot tea and a plate of Jammie Dodgers. John smiles at him and asks him if he is planning on staying in bed all day or if he just wanted room service. Sherlock smiles back at him and suddenly nothing is awkward any longer. John walks over to him while Sherlock sits up and tries to make some space on the bed for John to sit down, before realising with some disappointment that his bed is not nearly big enough for two to comfortably recline. He makes a mental note to do something about that before John's next visit and takes the cup of tea.<p>

Sherlock takes a sip and burns his tongue. Frowning at the cup he notices the distinct lack of milk in his tea and remembers the shopping he had meant to get in yesterday and the half-finished experiment on the table and the unpaid bill in his coat pocket and he really should get up and deal with all these things. Only John is sitting beside him, smiling and nibbling on the biscuits Sherlock is sure were meant for him and nothing seems terribly vital any more.


	11. Chapter 10

John looks at himself in the mirror feeling utterly ridiculous in the fancy dress costume Sherlock had picked out for him and wonders if they should go after all. The two of them could just stay in and watch the telly and snuggle by the fire instead of facing the biting cold and several hours of tedious talk and socializing with Sherlock's colleagues. Straightening his Stetson he reminds himself of the promise he made during a particularly hot make out session and the fact that there will be an open bar at the yearly police winter party. Sighing he casts one last look at himself before stepping out of the bathroom.

Sherlock stands in the middle of the hallway looking like he has walked out of some BBC period drama with his long black cloak dark like his unruly curls and ruffled shirt clinging tightly to his body in a way that almost made John want to swoon like a medieval maiden. Sherlock stares at John, the harsh light heightening the milky whiteness of his skin and for a moment John can almost believe his boyfriend is a vampire. But then Sherlock smiles inadvertently showing John his ridiculously large plastic fangs and he's back to being Sherlock again. Wonderful, crazy, amazing Sherlock.

Closing the distance between the two of them John's fingers reach up and curl around the base of Sherlock's neck as his other hand slips around that slim thin waist enveloping the detective in tight embrace. Their hips flush against one another John gently pulls Sherlock down so that their lips are almost touching. John stares at Sherlock's pink plush lips millimetres from his own and they breathe each other in. Sherlock's eyes flutter shut and John feels Sherlock's pulse quicken beneath his fingers. John smiles, it would be easy, astoundingly easy to close that small gap between them and kiss Sherlock, to mess up that handsome outfit and fluff up those wild locks. And Sherlock would let him, let John pin him up against the wall or against the door and kiss the breath out of him until the both of them nearly asphyxiate.

John's body buzzes and his heart pounds as his breath mingles with Sherlock's and he imagines spending the evening with those warm lips on his. Ever the tease John licks his lips pressing them up against the detective's ear and asks Sherlock the question that's been bothering him all evening.

"Why a cowboy costume?"

John feels the heat spread across Sherlock's face as he mumbles his reply into John's collar.

"Thought it was sexy." He says petulantly like a naughty child that has been caught doing what it shouldn't.

John smirks against Sherlock's ear and pops a quick kiss on Sherlock's lips before loosening his grip so he can staring into Sherlock's beautiful grey eyes.

"Really 'cause I think I look more like the milky bar kid."

Sherlock gives John a look and the corner of his lips turn up in one of his secret not smiles.

"It's a bit late to go changing your costume now but if you really want to the newsagents down the street is still open."

John laughs and says come on Dracula grabbing Sherlock's hand pulling him out the door and into the waiting taxi before the urge to ruffle Sherlock's hair and snog him senseless overwhelms him.

* * *

><p>"I didn't even get a chance to show Anderson what a happy, stable monogamous relationship looks like" Huffs Sherlock barely thirty minutes later as they walk down the street arms linked on their way back to Sherlock's flat having been at the party for approximately ten minutes. John just stares at the glittering light display illuminating the street and tries to ignore the stinging red mark on his cheek.<p>

"I wanted to introduce you to Lestrade." Adds Sherlock pulling his cloak tighter around himself wishing he had brought his scarf with him.

"Yes well I didn't mean to punch him it just sort of happened." Mutters John still slightly upset from earlier.

"Anyway how was I to know he was the chief superintendent? As far as I knew he was just an ugly guy in a superhero costume taking the piss out of my boyfriend."

"Yes well he's never exactly been one of my biggest fans." Replies Sherlock breezily.

John stops in the middle of the street and turns to face Sherlock.

"How can you be so calm about it? He insulted you!" Yells John, the anger inside him bubbling up again as his mind replays the horrid moment over and over in his head, they'd just arrived and Sherlock had gone to get them some drinks and John stands there feeling slightly lost amongst the crowd of strange and absurd costumed police when some prick dressed as superman comes up beside John and strikes up a conversation. It goes well until he points a pudgy finger over to where Sherlock stands filling up two cups with warm mead.

"Looks a bit of a weirdo don't he? A bit of a creep, but then those vigilante types always do don't they?" Says the man his dislike of Sherlock evident in his tone. John's fist connects to the bastard's face before his brain had even registered the insult.

"I've been called worse." Sherlock says shrugging bringing John back to the present. John stares at him and recalls each and every time Sherlock had mentioned in a letter being called something dreadful by his supposed colleges. His heart twists tightly as he realises what twats Sherlock has been hanging round with and that he's probably the first person in the world to completely accept Sherlock for who he is.

"Yes well not any more they don't, else they'll have to answer to me." He says retaking Sherlock's arm guiding Sherlock over to admire one of the larger Christmas displays.

* * *

><p>"You missed seeing Anderson in a diplodocus costume the other night" says Sally on Monday when Sherlock comes in to return some case notes.<p>

"I'd rather not hear about your strange sex dreams" Replies Sherlock checking his desk for any new cases. Sally hits him with a ruler.

"I meant the party Freak! I thought you were coming? Don't tell me you deleted it from your memory? Anyway it was awesome, some bloke broke the chief superintendent nose with such force he fell in the chocolate fondue and ruined his tights!"

Sherlock says nothing smirking at the memory.

"What are you doing here anyway? You're meant to be on recharging your power cells or whatever it is robots do when on holiday." She says her words lacking the bite they usually have, suggesting she did have intercourse with Anderson last night after all.

Before he can answer her redundant question Lestrade calls her over.

* * *

><p>Sherlock spends the remainder of the morning at the station and comes back to find John has transformed the living room into a winter wonderland, full of glittering baubles and tacky tinsel. Sherlock nearly drops the carrier bags full of groceries in surprise.<p>

"Move in with me" He says realising he wants to spend more than just the holidays with the soldier in front of him.

"What?" John stills half way up the step ladder the plastic mistletoe dangling from his fingers.

"You should move in with me." Says Sherlock repeating himself, his voice nervous uncertain of John's reply. In his head he has hundreds of practical arguments why John should do this ranging from _you'd save all that money you currently waste on storage _to _I fear I might have dreamt you when I wake up and you're not there, _only his voice seems to have dried up and abandoned him. Sherlock stands there awkwardly swinging the bags in his hands half waiting for rejection as John contemplates his question.

"All right" Says John smiling down at him. Sherlock stares at him slightly stunned and John laughs and gets down from the ladder.

"Oh my beautiful idiot, did you really think I was going to say no?" He asks taking the shopping from Sherlock's hands and giving him a quick peck.

"Come on then I've got some fresh gingerbread in the kitchen."

* * *

><p><span>Hey hope you liked this little update, more is still to come. <span>

Did some format changing and corrections on the last chapters. Now only Sherlock's thoughts/ letters are in italics and the same goes for John in bold.

In the meantime I recommend you visit my tumbler page! I'm paperprincearchive dot tumblr dot com

If you like me, don't forget to follow me on there!


	12. Chapter 11

Mini update- Warning some smut ahead!

* * *

><p>It doesn't take John particularly long to move in, for having spent the almost the entirety of his adult life in the army he has had little time to amassed personal items. The general process of moving John's seven boxes of odds and ends, unused popcorn maker and antique painting of three kittens that he inherited from a much loved grandmother, goes well despite Sherlock being unsurprisingly unhelpful and ignoring the short period when one of Sherlock's neighbours had mistaken them for burglars and threatened to call the police.<p>

Little really changes with the addition of John's stuff. His things are hardly noticeable amongst the mess that is Sherlock's flat and he is still confined to the sofa. This is partly due to Sherlock's desire to take things slow but mostly due to the fact that Sherlock's bed is barely big enough for him let alone John as well.

Sherlock celebrates the successful move by taking John out for a curry and conducting a rather messy experiment involving fake blood and feathers that renders his bed uninhabitable in order to have a suitable justification for sharing the sofa bed with John. Which is both adorable (in a Sherlock kind of way) and terribly unnecessary as Sherlock spends most nights curled up beside John anyway.

* * *

><p>John is half asleep when Sherlock lets out a little grunt beside him. John blinks his eyes drifting from the car show on the telly to the long limbed pyjama clad genius beside him. John stares at Sherlock's trembling lips and flushed face as he fidgets under the blankets and rubs a hand over his forehead.<p>

"Are you wanking?"

"Yes. Is that a problem?" Asks Sherlock, momentarily pausing to adjust his grip and before resuming. He strokes himself slowly his breath heavy and littered with soft moans.

"No, no it's fine, really. Just a little unexpected" Says John his skin tingling with arousal as he imagines the feel of Sherlock's warm hand wrapping around his own rapidly hardening dick.

"You can touch me if you like. This programs boring anyway."

John considers the offer for a moment, before turning the television off and sliding closer to Sherlock.


	13. Chapter 12

**Note this chapter has been edited slightly.  
><strong>

**Warning this chapter contains scenes of a (gay) sexual nature!**

* * *

><p>Sherlock wakes to find John snoring quietly in his ear. Were it anyone else Sherlock would find this irritating, unbearably annoying even but somehow the wheezy breathy noise John makes is adorable. Achingly comfortable in his sturdy embrace Sherlock quickly drifts back to sleep with John's breathe tickling the back of his neck ignoring the icky stickiness in his underwear and the fact that somehow during the night he has ended up being the little spoon.<p>

When at last they do get up, John like a proper gentleman (the sort that in days gone by would gallop in on a gleaming horse, his sword draw at the ready to slay the beast and save the day motivated by righteousness rather than monetary reward and would accept no remittance more than a proper cup of tea and a biscuit) the sort of prince one is hard pressed to find nowadays, lets Sherlock shower first and prepares a late breakfast for them both.

Sherlock barely glances at the newspaper that is devoid of murders, robberies or mysteries before passing it over to John. He hardly touches his tea and just nibbles at his toast but either John is used to this behaviour or still unbelievably happy as a result the activities of last night to comment.

Taking another tiny bite of toast Sherlock smirks as he recalls the way John had rocked his clothed manhood against Sherlock's thigh, shamelessly desperate for the friction and release. And oh the feel of John's rough skin against his cock as those short fingers rubbed and caressed him thoroughly is permanently etched into his memory. Feeling himself grow hard beneath his silk dressing gown Sherlock swallows the last of his tea. A slight blush rises to his cheeks as he formulates a plan to deal with the uncomfortable swelling in his pants.

"I can't" he thinks shifting slightly to ease the pressure building in his lower regions.

"But John's right there!" moans another treacherous part of him, the part that ignores the hundreds of other things Sherlock has planned for today and begs to feel the euphoric release of another orgasm. Sherlock fiddles with his butter knife as a fierce internal debate rages inside of him. He could… no that would be far too ridiculous, even for him. Maybe? No definitely not. Then again John hadn't had he? Yes well it would only be fair to return the favour and well what better time than when the two of them were freshly scrubbed, with nowhere to be until eleven… besides the experiment the night before had been a rousing success allowing the two of them to connect on an even more personal level. Decision made he slinks underneath the table and crawls over to where John sits.

Utterly absorbed in the paper John has yet to notice Sherlock's disappearance. Sherlock could still back out, pretend to have been merely recovering a dropped utensil and John would be none the wiser. Sherlock could try this some other time; there should be plenty of opportunities in the future after all. Besides John doesn't mind abstaining from sex, he had after all been celibate when Sherlock and he had first become acquainted.

But then again Sherlock thinks of the lonely nights to come when John dutifully returns to war. The two of them have less than four days left together and the desire to touch, to catalogue the different sounds John makes and store them away in his mind palace, as treasures that can be kept and re-examined during those torturous empty nights is unbearable.

Perching on his knees Sherlock reaches a shaking hand towards the hem of John's baggy jogging bottoms tugging it gently down, thankful that the table between them prevents John from watching his latest attempt at seduction. The stale stuffy air is flooded by the smell of John's minty shower gel. Gripping the table leg with his free hand to steady himself Sherlock slips his dominant hand over John's flaccid cock and starts applying the same attention John had given him the night before.

Finally cottoning on to Sherlock's plans John lets out an indignant squeak in surprise and drops his jam covered toast on to the floor. Startled by the noise Sherlock jerks upright banging his head lightly on the wood above him. For a moment everything goes quiet, so quiet that Sherlock can hear his heart hammering in his chest. Above him the newspaper ruffles and a John lets out a stifled snort that Sherlock cannot place. Surely John was not opposed to this? Sherlock frowns, things seemed so much easier in the erotic novels Molly had lent him for research purposes. He pauses momentarily to rub a hand against his lover's leg. As if sensing his uneasiness John eagerly spreads to allow Sherlock better access to his private bits. As he does so understanding hits Sherlock, John had made a sex noise.

Pleased to be the source of such melodic sounds Sherlock resumes his ministrations wondering what sort of faces John may be making as his member reacts happily, swelling to a magnificent size. Sherlock shifts closer eager to examine John's shaft in detail pushing John's legs further apart for better access. John shudders as Sherlock's warm breathe flutters over his leaking tip.

Impulsively Sherlock leans in to kiss John's foreskin. Encouraged by the deep moan it elicits from John, Sherlock widens his lips, guiding the tip into his warm moist mouth. The sensation is strange but not unpleasant and definitely one Sherlock could get used to. Sherlock doesn't need to see John's face to know how flustered each little lick and kiss makes him for Sherlock's name is a mantra on John's lips. Sherlock runs his tongue over the soft red flesh, one hand still pumping the John's base pressing the palm of the other into his own aching hard on. The concentration and coordination involved is startling but Sherlock files that thought away for later feeling edge of orgasm creep over him.

John fists the linen tablecloth indicating his own climax to be near. Sherlock recalls the hours of practice spent sucking on strawberry ice lollies and runs his tongue seductively along John's thick prick undoing John completely. John screams his name and Sherlock follows moments later, his chest tightening at the way John had called his name as if he was the only one in the world who mattered. Sherlock tries not gag on the salty seed that floods his mouth, letting what he cannot swallow dribble down his chin.

Licking him mostly clean Sherlock gently tucks John back into his trousers before crawling out from underneath the breakfast table. Next time, he thinks he will let John thread a hand through his dark curly hair as long as he promises not to pull at the sensitive roots.

Somewhat unsure how act now he had completed his task (porn seemed to end once the participants had reached their climax) Sherlock grabs a conveniently placed napkin from the table and begins to wipe at his messy face heading in a hopefully causal manner towards the bedroom for a change of underwear.

He's barely begun to cross the room before John captures him in a loving embrace, turning him around in his arms in order to wipe a pearl cum from his cheek of and kiss his swollen puffy lips. Somewhat dazed from the experience Sherlock notes that John's lips taste of raspberries and crumbs. But before Sherlock can settle in John's embrace his phone alarm chimes to remind him of the engagement he had arranged weeks ago.


	14. Chapter 13

After such a wonderful late morning surprise John is far too content to even question the large bouquet of beautiful yet expensively imported out of season sunflowers in Sherlock's arms, where the taxi is taking them or even why Sherlock had insisted he dress up in his nicest jumper (a soft blue one that Sherlock claimed brought out the colour of his eyes).

London flashes past them as the taxi exceeds the city speed limits, hurtling down narrow lanes and zigzagging through Christmas traffic until John is quite lost. Besides him Sherlock fidgets with his phone watching the seconds build up into minutes and mutters the word _late _over and over like the white rabbit from Alice.

The taxi stops outside a building with a screech. John barely registers the smart exterior of the ancient auditorium before Sherlock drags him inside the large double doors. The inside is even more fantastic all wood and delicate fittings that just screams class and old money. John has little time to examine anything though for Sherlock is still insisting they hurry and refusing to say why.

* * *

><p>The performance hall is empty save for the musicians in the midst of practice, preparing for the final recital that according to the poster in the lobby will be held later that night. Ignoring the sign that asks for the musicians to be left alone to practice Sherlock opens the door and strides down the centre of the hall, his long coat flapping dramatically as he makes his entrance. John follows close behind and tries not to look too embarrassed or worried as he does so, ignoring the high probability that he will be thrown out of this theatre still carrying the flowers that are meant for someone else. Besides it wouldn't be the first place his boyfriend had got him banned from recently.<p>

Utterly professional the four musicians ignore their sudden arrival and continue their practice. John stares at the instruments on the stage and remembers enough from school music lessons to know he is looking at a string quartet. Knowing this does little to explain anything. Stroking a flower petal John idly wonders if Sherlock is a fan, come to pay his respects before they leave for their next destination.

Sliding into a plush velvet seat Sherlock watches the stage enthralled. Sherlock's hand strokes the seat next to his silently asking John to sit down as well. Sighing slightly John takes the seat and turns his eyes towards the stage as well. Looking at the stage John examines the different musicians wondering which one could have possibly captured Sherlock's interest for all are evidently talented. Were Sherlock any other man the pretty young blond violinist would be the obvious choice, but then again John has plenty of evidence that suggests the female form is of very little interest to Sherlock whilst alive. Besides he would hardly bring his boyfriend with him to hit on someone else.

John looks at the chubby Cellist and the other violinist, a lean but not unattractive black man before discounting them as well. While not entirely impossible for the flowers to be for either bloke Sherlock refused to buy him flowers despite their intimacy so another man is out of the question entirely. The violist then decides John.

John is busy examining her, trying to deduce her like Sherlock would that he almost misses the sudden presence of another person in the room. The man's shoes squeak slightly as if damp causing John to wonder if he has been caught in the heavy rain as he slowly walks towards them. John notes the formal attire, not the manager then. Good wouldn't want to cause trouble.

The gentleman reaches them and up close John can see the grey of his hair and the faint likeness of the Stranger to his boyfriend. Realisation hits John. His eyes flicker back over the violist as the man who can only be Sherlock's father its down in the seat beside John. The smell of cigarettes hangs on his slightly damp clothes. John's nose recognises the brand, it's the one Sherlock prefers preferred before John made him quit. Sherlock's dad looks over to Sherlock who has yet to acknowledge his presence and smiles at them both.

"Oh good I haven't missed the second movement." He says in lieu of a greeting turning to look at the stage.

Nothing more is said until the practice is over. Sherlock's father stands to give an ovation and Sherlock joins him their movements echo in the vast empty space as the players take a bow. John feels awkward as he stands in the middle of the two unable to join in for fear of dropping the flowers.

Having packed up her instrument she comes over to them, the lady John knows must be Sherlock's mum, a vision in plum her long dark curls flowing freely. Her husband takes her hand and kisses it causing her to smile.

"Let's get lunch I'm famished." She says before thanking John for the flowers which are apparently her favourite.

The four of them end up having a delicious lunch at a enchanting restaurant that overlooks the icy waterfront were John learns more about Sherlock's childhood then the detective would probably like anyone to know.

Sherlock's parents Siger and Violet Holmes turn out to be a lovely couple completely different from John's father and stepmother for it is obvious they adore their youngest child. His mother in particular seems to take delight in embarrassing Sherlock in front of John by calling him her little angel and regaling numerous tales of a small frizzy haired boy in shorts running around Yorkshire hills chasing after his older rebellious brothers who've pilfered his skull again and skipped out of music practice.

In no time at all John learns that Sherlock's father is a scientist and almost as unsociable as Sherlock just with impeccable manners and in an even more expensive suit. Violet or Vivi as she prefers to be called, talks a bit about her work and Sherlock's twin brothers Sherrinford and Mycroft the latter whom is in government while the former is dedicated to running the family estate and churning out more and more grandkids (the current total being 7 though one more is on the way).

As wonderful as lunch seems to be going (John has never been in a relationship serious enough to warrant him being introduced to a lover's parents before) it isn't long however before Sherlock and Siger get distracted and start discussing their latest experiments doodling on napkins with crayons and using impossibly large scientific words.

With her boys completely distracted Vivi decides to use this opportunity to let John know he is practically all Sherlock talks about on that website of his which is surprising to say the least. She smiles as she tells him "it's all, my boyfriend John said this" and "John thinks that" and tells him its endearing. Placing a small manicured hand on his and she asks John if he'd do anything for Sherlock only it comes out sounding less like a question and more a statement of the facts.

"Yes" Replies John honestly without hesitation. Mrs Holmes smiles and pats his hand. John stares dumbly at her warm dark eyes and realises that Sherlock's parents are not just accepting of the two of them together they actually want it. Want him and Sherlock to be together. Want things to work out between them.

The words come stumbling out of his mouth before he can stop them.

"You approve?" He says failing to understand why anyone would want their genius son to be with some poor army doctor that spends a considerable amount of time fighting for his country and trying not to get shot at.

"Of course" Sighs Vivi as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and refilling their wine glasses.

"What mother doesn't want to see their son happy? Besides you're a good influence keeping him off the drugs and cigarettes and feeding him up and what not. You're a good man Captain Watson and I can see why my son's besotted with you." She says tipping back her glass just as the waiter brings them their desserts.

* * *

><p><span>Just a quick note, I've wanted to do something where Sherlock has perfectly nice parents for a while as in most stories they are horrible and abusive. I know very little about music and apologise for any mistakes. Also as John is currently serving in this chapter he'd be called Captain not Doctor I think? <span>

Reviews are completely welcome! :D


	15. Chapter 14

There are times when Sherlock nearly forgets just how wonderfully extraordinary his Doctor really is compared to everyone else. But then John dresses up as an elf for a case without question and spends three days working undercover with him in a department store's Santa's grotto without complaining once about the stupid elf ears or the horrid green tights management forces them to wear, which is fine because Sherlock whines enough for the both of them (apparently).

Straightening his tunic Sherlock steps out from the secret room hidden behind the plastic candy cane forest john following behind in a similar mess. Sherlock spends a few moments behind a tacky snow people statue readying himself for the unavoidable onslaught of spoiled sugar stuffed brats and fussy overbearing single mothers (why women continually tried to throw themselves at him despite his obvious lack of interest was unfathomable to him) while trying to not to show that he had just received an intensely satisfying blow job from his very possessive lover during their break.

John goes to check on the man impersonating Santa (a chubby balding old man called Humphrey who was more than willing to pretend to be Saint Nicholas for minimum wage while the real one was busy getting ready for the big day), leaving Sherlock to inform the impatient crowed that their wait is over. Sherlock sighs at the sight of the now even lengthier crowd in front of him and feels a headache coming on. Surely there were other Santa's grottos in London? A little voice calls to him sweetly interrupting his thoughts.

"Is you a real elf then?" Asks a little blonde girl of approximately 6.3 years old who seems to have wandered away from her guardian. As much as Sherlock would love to correct her grammar, the missing parents bit takes priority so he hands her a lollipop (he has an unending supply of them courtesy of management) and takes her over to the intercom system to call for her family.

He answers her questions about the North Pole as honestly as possible given that he is not a real elf and has therefore never been there. In return she answers as many questions as she can about herself which helps considerably with his missing child form. As they wait for someone to notice they've left their little girl behind Sherlock gives her more sweets to munch on while simultaneously trying not to let his irritation show and his façade slip. As impossible as it sounds misplacing children in large stores is apparently a common occurrence (especially those that are young and small enough to crawl under and into strange spaces). A part of him wants to berate the idiot that can't keep an eye on a six year old for more than a couple of hours but he doesn't for the child seems unconcerned at being lost, but Sherlock suspects that this has yet to occur to her. As trying as it is for Sherlock to maintain his false persona he persists with the endeavour projecting a happy elf character so as not to risk upset the child further. Elves are after all supposed to be cheerful and Father Christmas would not after all be pleased with him making a little girl cry so close to Christmas (and he is very much looking forward to a new chemistry set).

Sherlock watches as John ushers another small group in to see the fake Santa and smiles. Only a few hours more of this and then the case would be over and they could go home and immerse themselves in a hot bubble bath.

A slightly out of breath woman appears minutes later, pushing a bulky pushchair awkwardly as if unused to the weight despite the age of the child inside it. Not the mother then, nor the nanny judging by the knees peeking out from a longish skirt. They'd be used to the rushing about and be able to push the stroller without nearly knocking into things and running people over. A relative pressed by seasonal spirit and an overworked older sibling to provide some complimentary child care. Boring. The little girl seems pleased to see them again though, which is good.

"Jessica, are you all right? Thank you! Thank you so much for finding her. I don't know what I'd have done if anything had happened. My sister would have killed me." She says her words spilling out in the rushed hectic manner her voice frantic with concern. Though the child shows no sign of trauma the woman pulls the child into a tight hug and pats her head anyway.

"I'm so sorry Jess, we were just in the boys section looking at the robots and I didn't see you disappear and… Oh my Sherlock?" Says the women letting go of the girl long enough to let Sherlock get a good look at her and vice versa. Sherlock looks at Molly slightly surprised to see her outside of the hospital. In her normal clothes it's hard to tell she spends most of her time cutting up dead bodies in the name of science. With her hair down and her face done up she looks like a girl. Sherlock fights back a shiver at that thought. Molly stares at him in his elf costume and he feels slightly self-conscious all of a sudden.

"We're on a case" he all but blurts out. Molly nods and looks at her niece and nephew nervously.

"Nothing serious?" She asks hopefully, looking around worriedly as if a dozen armed men are about to storm the store and kill everyone. Sherlock looks at her slightly dejected.

"Sadly no, not this time. It's just a private case. Everything is perfectly safe. John and I are just trying to catch some illegal smugglers."

Molly breathes a sigh of relief before looking at him confused.

"Who's John?"

Sherlock looks at Molly confused. Was she being serious? He'd told people about John, he wasn't a secret. Their relationship wasn't a secret. He'd proclaimed their relationship on his website and talked about his Doctor all the time. Sherlock had even told the whole police force, so why didn't Molly know? Everyone at the hospital knew about John, especially after a Retinoblastoma consultant called Mary had caught sight of the two of them kissing in a booth in Angelo's and declared the two of them the most adorable couple ever. Sherlock looks at her in confusion, maybe she just hadn't heard, Molly wasn't one too keep up with the gossips after all.

Flashing Molly a dazzling smile Sherlock tilts his head over to Santa's palace and where John stands talking to a rather dissatisfied parent.

"He's my assistant and boyfriend." He says rather pleased as he eyes up his shorty in a red Christmas jumper.

Molly's eyes go wide in surprise and her face goes red. Her mouth opens and closes several times but no sound comes out. The gears whirl in Sherlock's head. Ah she didn't know he realises, he forgets that people automatically assume others as straight until proven otherwise. Before he can come up with something that will make things less uncomfortable for Molly the little girl comes to the rescue.

"Aunty can we go see Santy now? I want to make sure he got my list." Sherlock and Molly look down on the child in surprise having forgotten her presence. Sherlock looks into her sky blue eyes. She looks just like John he thinks with a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. It was a shame his boyfriend didn't want kids, they'd be adorable.

Loud obnoxious screaming suddenly broke out the other side of the room as a little boy was refused a cheap toy gun by his parents. "Then again maybe not" thinks Sherlock as he guides Molly and that over to see Santa, overriding the queue in the process.

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><p><em>Hey guys hope you like this update. I wanted to something with John dressed up as an elf since I saw an image of him dressed up as one from the film Nativity.<em>

_Expect irregular updates until the end of this month 'cause I'm very busy with revision. Sorry about that._

_Also please don't hesitate to send me reviews and why not check out my tumblr page!_

_I'm **paperprincearchive**_


	16. Chapter 15

Molly looks at the terribly concealed love marks on Sherlock's neck and listens to the man she'd idolized since the day they met, babel on about his latest case. He thinks aloud while her heart crumbles further at the sight of each new bruise. The faint hope he had been joking about a boyfriend vanishes as she stare at his love bites. Her heart finally admits defeat while her brain struggles to come to terms with the strange news Sherlock had imparted upon her just days ago. There had been rumours floating around the hospital for months about him having some sort of boyfriend or lover but no one had really believed them. Sherlock was after all completely aloof and uninterested in petty things like romance. Or at least he had been.

For years Molly had imagined him as some mysterious creature incapable of returning her feelings. Somehow that had been better, thinking he was completely heartless. She had thought him to be asexual. They all had. Now she knew better and it was killing her inside. What was wrong with her? She wanted to shout. Why couldn't he love her instead of that short stocky blonde doctor?

Her hands trembled as they clung to her mug and fought back the tears. She wasn't going to cry, not in front of him. Not in front of Sherlock. That would be the worst mistake she could make. As clueless as he was to her attraction to him, her blubbering would be noticed and cause awkward questions. She would have to lie to him and he would see through the lies and learn the real reason for her tears. And then he would _know_ and everything would be ruined.

His words wash over her as she sips her cold tea and tries to comprehend just what Sherlock sees in his lover. They had met briefly while Jessica and Nathan had been with Santa. John had seemed a nice man but nothing spectacular. His looks were pleasant but dull in comparison to the beauty that was Sherlock Holmes. He was intelligent but nowhere near a genius. Nevertheless the way John had smiled at him when introduced her to spoke volumes about the nature of their relationship. It was clear from the way he spoke that he was in love with Sherlock.

Yet something had niggled at her soul when watching the two of them together. It seemed all wrong in a way she supposed. The sharp contrast between the two men, John dark from his tours abroad and Sherlock as pale as paper. A giant and a hobbit. A mastermind with Mr Average. It was absurd. What made it worse was the way they somehow fit together perfectly, like peanut butter and jam sandwiches.

In her mind she had always imagined that nothing save a gorgeous dark haired temptress with a mind as cutting and sharp as Sherlock's would be able to capture the detective's heart. And yet somehow a plain old army doctor had managed to accomplish the feat others had been attempting for years. It wasn't fair, not really. John spent hardly any time in the same country as Sherlock yet he was the person Sherlock had chosen to surrender himself to. Somehow this man had broken down the barricades Sherlock had put up against everyone. Somehow he had made Sherlock fall in love with him.

A part of her wonders when it began, when the cold heart began to melt. In hindsight the signs are obvious. The fluctuations in attitude as a result of the stress caused by the long distance relationship, the quitting of cigarettes done to please his sweetie, the time off saved to suit John's schedule, the peculiar questions about courting rituals which spoke for itself really and the strange little knickknacks that had found their way into his possession such as that awful Chinese golden cat statue could only have been a gift. The doctor who had caused the gradual increase in Sherlock's weight (that made him seem less gaunt and more healthful) was not a nutritionist but rather a concerned boyfriend who had taken to feeding him up! The more Molly thinks about it the more it becomes obvious this romance is not nearly as new as she had initially hoped. Was she really that unobservant? Or had she been in denial?

Either way fresh jealousy stirs inside her as she chances yet another glance at the pale expanse of neck that is covered in dark bloody kiss marks that peek out from beneath Sherlock's trademark blue scarf. Her traitorous mind wonders just what else went on the night before John left.

Did he spend the evening caressing and worshipping Sherlock's body as if trying to commit every pale inch of flesh, every scar and every blemish to memory? Did John's stubble brush against Sherlock's skin as he smothered Sherlock's body with kisses? Did Sherlock try his hardest not to giggle at the sensation of John's rough fingers stroking his flesh? Did John's lips glide over him in the dim lamplight?

Did they savour every remaining moment of their time together and spend the night touching and tasting each other's bodies? Or did they eventually curl up together exhausted? Did Sherlock cling tightly to John as they slept? Did he breathe in his scent and snuggle close to the sturdy Captain?

Unable to discern which one of them penetrates the other Molly watches as Sherlock swirls a potentially dangerous combination of chemicals together in a beaker before deciding he is distracted enough for her gaze to travel downwards towards Sherlock's firm tight buttocks without detection. Her eyes linger there as her thoughts trail off into a swirl of jealousy and hurt and several other conflicting emotions.

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><p>Sherlock is in one of the labs examining some evidence that should provide enough evidence to free an innocent young mother of two who has been falsely accused of murdering the babysitter, when Molly appears with two mugs of hot tea. Sherlock ignores the beverage and her in the hopes both will soon disappear. With John gone he is not in the mood for company. Molly sits watching him mix chemical compounds and pretending to do paperwork. Sherlock lets her, his thoughts drifting back to the other morning and the letter John had left with him.<p>

John had wordlessly slipped a plain white envelope underneath the skull on the mantle on his way out to the taxi. Sherlock doesn't ask what it is at the time but they both knew it was his note. Sherlock had been watching the news intently for months and flinching every time a newsreader announced yet another death regarding a soldier on the front line but somehow in that moment everything became more real. Sherlock had avoided John's gorgeous eyes for fear of breaking down then and there. In his mind Sherlock recalls the way John had grabbed Sherlock's wrist and murmured the words "Just in case" in his ear before kissing his cheek lovingly and headed to the door.

The letter still lies on his mantle unopened. Sherlock hopes the letter stays unopened forever. Curiosity be damned.

Tuning out Molly to focus on the work seems harder than usual for she keeps staring at him intently as he voices his findings aloud. Generally she knows better to bother him when he is working but today Molly seems determined to ask him something. A quick glance tells him it's something she is uncomfortable about discussing and that it has clearly been bothering her for a while. Probably since the last time they spoke.

"Ah" He thinks "she wants to ask about John". Sherlock initially considers rebuffing Molly for his love life is none of her concern but something in her look warns him not to. Mentally sighing his brain prepares himself to answer some mushy romantic question that girls often like to ask such as "how did you two meet?" and is therefore surprised by the question she actually voices.

She asks him why he stays with John when he's hardly ever around and always seems to make him so sad and lonely when he leaves. Before he can speak she's talking again, asking if that's what he's after some part time lover, someone with whom he doesn't have to do the hard relationship bits with, the fights and compromises and lies.

Sherlock swallows and briefly lifts his eyes up from his microscope and the compound samples to see if he has missed something in her meaning, for she must not surely believe he cares so little about the one person on earth his world rotates around. His eyes detect no hint of humour and he frowns into his samples.

"We fight" he says slowly still slightly unable to wrap his head around her thought process yet at a loss himself, unsure how to explain in a way that she could understand that John was his now and would remain so indefinitely. For the mere thought of separating, of breaking up with John and returning to how it was before, was unimaginable.

"Incessantly, but then we laugh and make up. Yes, it… troubles me that his work makes him disappear for months on end but he does it for a good reason. He's saving lives. The war is John's work and I have mine. I understand that as does he." And with that he drifts out of the laboratory having found all the evidence he needs to have the real murderer changed.

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><p><span>Hey all, I know what I said but lady inspiration wouldn't leave me alone and well most of this was already written. I hope this makes up for the lacklustre first meeting with Molly in the last chapter. <span>

Also its been pointed out that Molly technically met John earlier but he wasn't Sherlock's boyfriend then and she thought he was a builder and probably doesn't remember. Hope that clears things up.

As always reviews are appreciated and encourage me to continue to update promptly! 


	17. Chapter 16

Mycroft has a proper talk with John. Some mentions of Mycroft & Anthea (no mystrade this time sorry). Mycroft & Anthea is another favourite paring of mine and I wanted to give writing them together a bit of a go.

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><p>Obviously something should have been done months ago to resolve the situation Sherlock currently found himself in. His baby brother with a boyfriend. Ridiculous! Totally inappropriate. Sherlock was after all far too young for such things like romance and sex. Defiantly far too young for sex (the drugs had been bad enough thank you very much). Mycroft shuddered and removed those thoughts from his mind replacing them with cake instead.<p>

If only Mycroft hadn't been in denial about the Watson issue for so long he could have sorted everything out before things had gotten out of hand and they'd moved in together. But Mycroft had let life and death matters of state and a rapidly blossoming romance between him and his bodyguard/secretary Anthea (the newly titled Mrs Holmes) to take precedent in his life. Under his neglect this situation had been allowed to develop into a crisis. And now Sherlock was the proud mother of a six month old male pug named Gladstone (after the late grandpa Holmes).

Stupidly he'd relied on Sherlock's talent of driving people away to end the romance before it had begun and had assumed that this thing with the Doctor would be little more than a quick fling. Somehow though Watson defied all logic and had worked his way into his little brother's heart, stubbornly deciding to stay put there. If only Mycroft hadn't been so intent in keeping Detective Inspector Lestrade away from Sherlock he might have seen the warning signs between his brother and his pen pal. (No matter how harmless Anthea had claimed they'd been at the time, he should have realised blokes do not generally send their male friends shirtless photos of themselves).

He should have known something like this would happen eventually. He had after all found love so it wasn't that inconceivable for his brother to do the same. Even if said brother was a right little brat.

It wasn't that Mycroft disliked Watson per say, out of everyone Sherlock knew he was the preferred love interest and besides mummy seemed to like him. It was merely that Mycroft knew his brother and knows no one, no matter how amazing or talented or kind a person they are, can live with Sherlock without eventually being driven slightly mad (family included). There was a reason after all why none of his flatmates had worked out.

So it was all well and good for his parents to welcome the Captain into the family and invite him to mummy's upcoming 60th birthday party and for Sherrinford to send the two of them a moving in present, (a china tea set tastefully decorated with honeybees). But in the end Sherlock would mess it all up, John would leave him for good and Mycroft would be left picking up the pieces of his brother's broken heart.

How no one else could see this was a mystery to him. Though of course mother had been blindsided by the fact Sherlock had gone and landed himself a man who was both a doctor and an army captain, (mummy always loved to show off to the neighbours). And father well, father had probably deduced Watson's terrible trust issues, his former gambling addiction and the fact he was estranged from his family but had probably failed to recognise Watson's romantic relationship with his youngest child (father was peculiar like that, able to see so much and yet miss the obvious- a bit like Sherlock).

It was for this reason really that he is left with no other choice then to abduct Watson and have a little talk man to man. Someone had to protect his brother after all.

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><p>It was a short but informative meeting. One Mycroft would be pleased never to have to repeat as long as he lived. Which if the new diet worked out as planned should be a considerably long time. The cuddly outward appearance had certainly been misleading right up until the point John (he'd been told to call him John) had revealed his impressive knife throwing skills, ruining the shoulder of Mycroft's suit and severally denting his pride in the process. It is wondrous though a little bit worrying how protective the soldier gets at the mere mention of the name Sherlock.<p>

Not even his best assassins dared to so much as unsheathe a blade in his presence and now he was being threatened by a simple army doctor? Clearly the man was far more courageous then previously indicated although perhaps drugging him and tying him up had been a mistake. Apparently the files on Captain John Watson hadn't as in-depth as they had seemed for they had clearly underestimated his combat skills (and possibly several other things). Later heads would roll for this embarrassment.

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><p>John makes quick work on the ropes and stands, straightens his awful porridge coloured jumper, he smiles and politely asks what the hell this is all about. Mycroft coolly and calmly explains what he wants John to do, namely to break things off with his brother before Sherlock ends up hurt. He even offers John a financial incentive to do so. John says no and refuses the money. No one ever refuses the money. No one ever says no to Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft tries again, tries to get John to understand. John tells him to shut up and mind his own damn business.<p>

"It's none of your business" He repeats, his voice echoing loudly around the abandoned warehouse. "I love him and I'm going to ask him to marry me whether you like it or not!"

The world stops for a moment as the words sink in. Mycroft nearly drops his umbrella in surprise. John wipes a hand over his face.

"Shit, I didn't mean… Of course I'd like the two of us to get on, only just stop bloody kidnapping me. I have a phone." He shifts uncomfortably and puts his hands in his jacket pockets.

"Look, don't tell him I told you that. It's meant to be a surprise and I don't want him to figure it out before I propose and well he might not even say yes…" He trails off and looks at Mycroft who has gone a funny colour.

"Married" thinks Mycroft as his brain shuts down refusing to comprehend what has just been said.

"Are you all right? Should I call someone?" He asks worriedly, suddenly back to being the John his minions had been spying on for months.

"I'm fine" Mycroft chokes out.

"Tell Sherlock you've passed the test. I'll be in touch"

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><p><span>Hey okay so just in case you were wondering it can be assumed Mycroft is not as all knowing as he likes to seem. Therefore he has no idea of what Sherlock and John have been getting up to in the past few months, I'm thinking Anthea has been keeping certain things from him ;)<span>


	18. Chapter 17

John likes to surprise Sherlock with little gifts every now and again, just because he can. Over the course of their courting (not that Sherlock would ever admit to using that term aloud) John has given Sherlock various presents including the modern equivalent of a mixed tape, an expensive navy blue scarf and a hundred or so little love notes to name but a few. Understanding the reciprocal nature of gifts Sherlock would always smile (whether he liked the gift or not) and give thanks either in the form of tea, kisses or if the situation allowed vocally while in bed.

As a result the small box John drops on the breakfast table while trying to find a space to put the tea down though unexpected does not arouse much curiosity in Sherlock. Perhaps if the box had been smaller it may have. Instead Sherlock merely assumes John has decided he has done something that is worthy of an imitation of a three thousand pound watch and simply continues to feed Gladstone apple slices.

Noticing Sherlock notice the box John smiles, picks up the case and kneels down in front of him. John gives Gladstone (who is currently resting in Sherlock's lap) a quick pat before reaching over to take Sherlock's slobber free, apple less hand in his. Sherlock looks at his John in his adorable stripy black and white woolly jumper and faded pyjama bottoms and marvels at the light and love that shines just for him in John's azure eyes that morning.

John shifts to rest on only one knee and opens the watch case. In that moment Sherlock realises two things. One that for once he is wrong, the watch is not at all fake and two that something he thought would never happen to him is about to happen. On his lap Gladstone quietens down and sits still as if able to understand the monumental moment currently occurring between his daddies.

"Sherlock you are my treasure and I love you, more then I thought a heart was able." Says John smiling nervously up at him, his heart aflutter and his stomach slightly uneasy as the fear of rejection lingers dimly in the back of his head.

"Than, you meant than not then, you love me more than you thought a heart was able." Sherlock says cutting into John's speech in order to correct his beloved, unable to tolerate an ungrammatically correct proposal.

"Sherlock would you shut up and listen for a moment, I'm asking you to marry me."

"Wrong"

"What?"

"Technically you're asking me to enter into a civil partnership with you, but it's basically the same thing as it provides the same legal consequences of marriage." He finishes and looks at John expectantly for a moment.

"Well go on then, woo me."

John chuckles and tucks a long dark curl behind Sherlock's ear, bringing his face close enough to kiss him taking care not to crush Gladstone in the process. John's thumb trails down across Sherlock's jaw, tracing his sharp cheekbones. John stares deeply into his eyes and kisses him chastely yet lovingly. Sherlock kisses him back passionately and they break apart. John rests their heads together.

"You're my best friend, a gorgeous companion, my most wonderful partner, an ingenious lover, my reason to live, and my soul mate. You're faithful and trustworthy and brilliant. You're beautiful and kind and constantly surprising and I am completely devoted to you. Without you I'm lost. "

"So what do you say? Fancy being the husband-"

"-Civil partner-"

"-Of an army Captain?"

Sherlock smiles and opens his mouth to speak but is interrupted by the robotic chime of John's mobile.

"Hold that thought" Says John placing a hand over Sherlock's lips and stands, picking his phone up off the table as he does so.

"I've got a text. It's from you. How the hell did you do that? You been sitting right there the entire time!"

Sherlock just smiles mysteriously and watches John read.

"It says yes" Says John dumb founded. Sherlock nods and Gladstone lets out a yap of approval at the news.

"Did you just agree to marry me via text?" Asks John.

"Evidently."

John gives Sherlock that looks that says, you're wonderful utterly ridiculous but wonderful and I don't know how on earth I of all people managed to get you to fall in love with me.

A grin slowly spreads across Sherlock's lips as he withdraws his mobile from beneath his dressing gown like a magician.

"I told you I prefer to text."

John grins back at him, his whole body brimming with happiness.

"Are you sure?"

"Of course, now come over here and kiss me."

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><p><span>Hey guys sorry it's a short update but I'm between exams (but sadly not done with them) and thought I would tease you all a bit. <span>

Hope you're not too mad to review!


	19. Chapter 18

Warning! This chapter contains mentions of child abuse, some angst and bad language.

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><p>Sherlock has never been particularly interested in meeting john's family, not since John told him about the horrendous abuse he suffered from at the hands of his stepmother at any rate. How someone could do something like that to John was unfathomable. Sherlock had looked her up once out of curiosity, the bitch that had tormented his John for years. From afar she had looked quite ordinary, a world away from the dreadful stepmothers mentioned in literature, but even from a distance he could sense her black twisted heart. It's fortunate for then for her sake that she is no longer a part of John's life for though John says he's forgiven her Sherlock cannot help but consider various gruesome plots involving her demise.<p>

Out of the few surviving members of his family the only one John maintains some form of contact with is his half-sister Harriet who prefers to go by Harry. The two of them have a somewhat volatile relationship hampered somewhat by a considerable age gap and little more in common than the same set of paternal DNA. John tries his best though despite this and even goes so far as to invite Harry around for dinner so she and Sherlock can get acquainted.

Like his father, Sherlock has never really liked dinner parties or entertaining and would generally spend evenings curled up in his room with a book, away from company least he say the wrong thing and upset the Duke of Beaufort or whoever his parents happened to have over. However even Sherlock understands the significance of the evening. There are a great number of books, films and television episodes that suggest that the meeting the family of your significant other is a monumental event that can potentially strengthen or wreck your relationship. (Apparently it is important to try and get your future in-laws to like you while being yourself, something that has never come easily to Sherlock though he does promise to try for John's sake).

Attempting to be a good fiancé he helps John clean the flat in preparation for Harriet's visit and (after being given a fantastically motivational hand job) removes the body parts in the freezer and throws out the more toxic of his experiments. And even though he really doesn't want to, because it's boring, Sherlock spends the better half of an afternoon cooking food that is not only edible but actually delicious. Surprisingly by ten to seven the flat manages to look presentable and completely unlike its usual self.

John and Gladstone have also undergone a transformation and are looking extra neat and adorable in what mummy would call their Sunday best, having had a quick bath to remove the dirt and grime they got covered in when the bag of vacuum cleaner exploded as a result of Gladstone mistaking it for a toy and biting it. Straightening his Armani suit Sherlock tries to resist the urge to go and change into the purple shirt that John likes for Harry should arrive any moment and there is not enough time.

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><p>Five minutes pass, then ten and before they know it, its seven forty-five and Harry has still not arrived. In the oven the roast is slowly burning and Sherlock is running out of reassuring reasons for her being late.<p>

When the buzzer to the flat finally goes it's a relief to say the least. John goes down to let Harry in while Sherlock fiddles with the drooping flower arrangement.

John returns with a surprised look on his face and not one but two guests. Sherlock deduces that the short curvy redhead in a fashionable yet practical crimson dress clutching two wine bottles is Harry. At 27 Harry is the near spitting image of the woman who stole John's father from his mother as she was slowly dying of cancer. The heavy make-up hides the evidence of a bad diet and too many nights spent drinking and partying, while the series of conflicting and badly drawn Buddhist, Nordic and Hindu tattoos speak of badly made life choices and an artistic temperament.

Behind her stands a small stocky pot bellied man in unflatteringly tight shirt and trousers. Sherlock pales slightly. He had not been expecting John's father Albert but then neither had John judging by the look his love shoots him as he takes their coats. John and his father haven't been on speaking terms for years, not since he took his wife's side of an argument and cut off John's school funding, yet now he suddenly shows up as if nothing has happened which is odd.

Were he John, he might merely assume his father has realised his mistakes and merely wants back into his life, but Sherlock isn't John so he fears the worst and assumes this probably has something to do with Albert's money troubles. Why else would the man squash himself into an ill-fitting suit unless he cannot afford a new one? Besides Sherlock cannot help but feel he is trying to figure out how rich they are as he looks around their flat with a keen eye. Realising his thoughts are a bit not good Sherlock silences his concern and tries to stop with his suspicious detective thoughts about John's family, his soon to be in-laws.

Sherlock forces himself to smile and introduce himself and Gladstone while recalculating portion sizes in his head. Harry hands him the wine which he takes to the kitchen grateful for an excuse to check on the food. Thankfully it is not ruined, though the beef might be a little tough and dry. Sherlock examines the wine and is pleased to find his initial deduction of Harry to be correct, she is an alcoholic.

He's just finished adding another place to the small table in the kitchen when he hears Harry shriek. Barging into the living room with a meat cleaver in hand Sherlock finds her pointing at the cow skull in horror. Realising they are not under attack he lowers his weapon and exchanges a confused glance with John who gives him the tiniest jolt of a shrug.

"Is that meant to be art?" She asks obviously disgusted judging by her tone and her face that looks as if she had just stepped in some of Gladstone's excrement.

"What is wrong with a skull wearing headphones?" Thinks Sherlock, though he dares not wonder this aloud in case of causing a rift. Instead he simply informs her it is a piece by a widely acclaimed artist the name of whom he forgets as soon as it has passed his lips.

"That must have cost you a fortune" says Albert with a whistle.

Sherlock looks at him somewhat perplexed. "I don't know it was a gift from a client"

With that silence descends on the room and Sherlock is left wondering if he sounded too harsh. Sensing the sudden tension in the room John flashes a grin that doesn't quite extend past his lips. John says something and Sherlock watches his mouth move but the words don't make it to Sherlock's ears for they are suddenly waterlogged.

Then the room fills with laughter as a result of whatever John said and suddenly the room doesn't seem quite so suffocating or tense. It being late they sit themselves down to eat without further delay, with John taking the stool Sherlock uses for his experiments owing to a chair shortage.

Sherlock whirls the roast out of the oven and presents it with a flourish only to be met with looks of vague apprehension from Harry. Frowning inwardly he can't help but wonder if pork would have indeed been a better choice. Harry looks at John and chooses that moment to let him know she is a fruitarian, a stricter form of vegetarian. John turns slightly red embarrassed at not knowing this about his sister and Sherlock feels anger rising up in the pit of his stomach. Surely that was something you informed your hosts of in advance? Sherrinford had a nut allergy and always made sure to inform the caterers before attending any major event or party. Placing the meat down on the table Sherlock quickly discusses what Harry can eat and what she won't and then calls a local curry place that delivers.

Awkward conversation flows as they wait for the food to arrive. John learns his sister is in the process of getting a divorce from a woman he has never met and that his father's business has recently started producing a new line of cordless drills. Harry spends a considerable amount of time explaining to Sherlock why modern medicine is killing people and that homeopathic medicine is the future while he bites his tongue and tries to pretend he finds her drivel fascinating. Beside him John struggles not to let his anger get the best of him as his father tests his patience for Albert fails to grasp the fact that Sherlock and John are merely renting and so he cannot go upstairs unless he wishes to disturb their landlady Mrs Mazzei and her toy boy husband.

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><p>The longer the evening goes on the less like it feels a celebration and more like a full out battle (especially as Harry proceeds to get drunker and drunker). Innocent discussions about work lead to arguments about the legality of the war in Afghanistan. As things draw out Sherlock can't help but feel as if somehow without even meaning to he is causing offence every time he opens his mouth to speak. To make matters worse, his upper-class upbringing and university degree seem to unintentionally feed Harry's insecurities, and his initial assumptions about Albert prove to be correct when he seems more than a little disappointed to discover that the vast majority of Sherlock's money is either wrapped up securely in a trust fund or in various accounts that are strictly controlled by his elder brother Mycroft (the ten thousand in a joint bank account he shares with John remains a secret and the suggestion of investing in Grunning's Drills is dropped).<p>

By the time the delivery boy finally arrives with the food Sherlock is sure he has spent an eternity in hell, though in fact it's only been forty-five minutes since the order was placed. Sherlock gets up to get the food, relieved to have an excuse to get away for a bit. The delivery boy is new and doesn't know how to use the pin machine forcing Sherlock to dig around in his pockets for some notes. As a result he misses what happens upstairs and so is only aware that both Harry and Albert are leaving when they angrily barge past him and the delivery boy in the hallway five minutes later.

Grabbing the food from the delivery boy's arms and leaving his change, Sherlock hurries up the two flights of stairs to their flat. He finds John sitting alone at the table, his hands clenched into tight balls in front of him. Dropping the now redundant food by the door Sherlock strides over to John and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. John lets out a shaky breath and Sherlock gathers that an altercation occurred almost as soon as he was removed from the room. John turns to look at him and at once Sherlock can see the anger in his eyes, though it's not directed at him.

"They called you a machine and I just saw red. You put so much effort into tonight and they just spat on you."

"They couldn't even pretend to be happy for me." Says John his voice low and broken. His words make Sherlock's heart tremble with sadness and he pulls John into an odd embrace. The angle's slightly uncomfortable and John's face is pressed up against his chest but John brings his arms up around Sherlock's waist and clings to him in a way that lets Sherlock know everything will be okay.

"They won't be coming again; I finally said all the things I should have said years ago." Mumbles John into Sherlock's jacket as he strokes his hair.

"Good" Replies Sherlock leaning down. He pulls John close and kisses him softly without warning. John visibly melts in his arms as all the tension that had slowly been building during the evening dissipates. A talented tongue starts to probe Sherlock's mouth causing him to moan softly against John's lips.

John replies with a strange rumble of a growl that is actually caused by his stomach. The two of them break apart with a giggle. They salvage something edible from the disastrous dinner party and snuggle up in bed with Gladstone who had mostly stayed out of the whole mess of an evening by hiding under the coffee table with his dog toy.

"I should've just taken you to the graveyard to meet mum" Says John later to a full and sleepy Sherlock as he idly rubs Gladstone's belly.

"We could go Saturday." Replies Sherlock cuddling closer.

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><p><span>Hope you liked this update. Please review. <span>

As to how many chapters there are to go I'm not sure though I've still got a plan that I'm sticking to.


	20. Chapter 19

Warning, this chapter contains angst and mentions of child endangerment and a lot of artistic licence. Reviews are appreciated.

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><p>Having spoken to John on the phone earlier that week and just received a new letter full of ceremony ideas that morning Sherlock is in a particularly good mood as he berates Anderson for contaminating the murderer's foot prints and slowing down the analysis of soil samples. The case is not particularly interesting, he's had better, but it's important, involving a dead supply teacher and bus-load of kidnapped schoolchildren and Sherlock is trying his best to be objective and get the case wrapped up as quickly as he can.<p>

Being in the middle of a case he almost ignores the shrill high pitched ring of his phone in favour of concentrating on the task at hand but the caller id is unfamiliar and well it wouldn't be the first time a murder calls him directly. His number is on the website after all. Raising a hand to silence Anderson mid rant he answers expecting to negotiate the lives of fourteen ten year olds with a murdering kidnapper in exchange for the code to a vault containing nearly half a million pounds.

Instead he finds him speaking to a soft spoken middle aged woman with apparently bad news. She sounds apologetic but insists it's important she speak directly to Mr Sherlock Holmes. Irritated by her disruption he confirms his identity and tells her to get on with her message as he's busy. She tells him it may be best for him to sit down for this conversation as it's important. Sherlock rebuffs her but moves off the pavement and onto a grassy verge in order to get away from an eavesdropping Anderson.

With a practised air she calmly informs him that not to be alarmed and that she is calling in behalf of the British service. Those words are all it takes to get Sherlock's full attention. His mouth goes dry as she explains that an incident has occurred and that his partner Captain John Watson has been injured in the course of duty.

Sherlock has never been much for religion but in that moment all he can think is please God let him be alive, let him live.

The words grievously wounded and critical condition ring in his ears like a half answered prayer. John's not dead yet, thank goodness but he may not stay that way for long. Sherlock consoles himself with the fact John's a fighter. It's too early to tell if he'll make it through though and he doesn't have nearly enough facts to make any sort of prediction.

Sherlock tries to comprehend the rest of what is being said to him, about what's happening to John but his mind is blank, numb with shock and confusion.

"This can't be happening" he thinks once the call has ended. Surely he's having a nightmare of some sort and he'll wake in John's warm embrace. He pinches himself to test that hypothesis but doesn't wake as planned. The harsh reality that John may really be dying hits him suddenly like an anvil in a children's cartoon. His mobile phone drops to the floor with a clunk yet Sherlock barely registers dropping it and instead focuses on trying to regulate his breathing, trying not to have a panic attack in the middle of a crime scene.

Sherlock had decided to keep John forever. They were getting married. They were going to grow old together and keep bees and make jam. John wasn't meant to get hurt. He wasn't allowed to, it wasn't in the plan. But somehow he had been. Fear rises up inside Sherlock as he realises he may not get the chance to hold John again or say goodbye in person. He closes his eyes to stop the tears from forming. There are a thousand things he still needs to say. Sherlock feels the darkness closing in around him, choking his heart. His hands shake uncontrollably as he tries to pictures life without John and his knees attempt to give up on him, threatening to drop to the muddy earth and ruin his expensive suit.

The only thing that stops him from doing so is the case. As much as he wants to he can't break down now, not when they are so close to finding this monster and locking him up for good. Sherlock takes a few more deep breaths and tries to calm himself enough to focus on the case. He picks up his phone and brushes the dirt off. There is nothing he can do for John at the moment but he can save the children. If only he could think! Now is not the time to loose himself in thoughts of John. There must be something, some clue that connected everything, something he wasn't seeing. Moments ago, before the call, he had been close to an answer. Something had been off about the body, if only he could concentrate long enough to figure it out.

Lestrade slouches over to where Sherlock stands completely unaware of the colossal news he has just received. Sherlock should tell him, should ask for the day off but the words die in his throat refusing to be spoken, refusing to let reality become real.

"So what do you think? Got anything?" He asks unaware Sherlock's heart has just been metaphorically ripped from his chest. Sherlock turns and looks blankly at Lestrade. He can't even remember the crime scene let alone any deductions he had been about to tell the Inspector.

"I… I don't know." He admits. Lestrade looks at him in surprise.

"You what?"

He relents somewhat as if noticing how terrible Sherlock feels. He slaps a hand on Sherlock's back.

"Look I know it seems bad but we need you. Keep it together."

Sherlock nods but feels even worse inside. Lestrade thinks he's upset about the case, yet in reality it's the furthest thing from his mind for John takes precedent over everything.

His phone oinks like a pig indicating Mycroft has messaged him, ordinarily the sound causes the corners of his lips to turn up but right now the childish sound brings him no amusement. Sherlock straightens and reads the short message.

Everything is under control. Make John proud little brother.

MH

Mycroft's words are comforting and help strengthen his resolve. Everything will be all right. Sherlock turns his mobile off and pockets it, pushing all thoughts of John into one of the empty closets in his mind palace and bolts the door. He will deal with things later once the case is solved.

Turning back to the minibus that had been abandoned barely half an hour ago something clicks in his now clear head. They already know the teacher's gag hadn't been tight enough to suffocate him and that he'd died of a heart attack. Which meant that the kidnapper had been after the boys all along. But why? Their parents weren't that rich, in fact it seemed increasingly unlikely they would be able to scrap together the cash by this evening's deadline. The kidnapper had been planning this for months and must know this; besides the initial note at the scene he hasn't bothered contacting the police. Indicating that the money is not the primary objective. Which begs the question, why abduct the children in the first place? And why drag them around London? Surely it would be far more sensible to lock them up in a room somewhere instead of taking them to various amusement places and getting caught on numerous CCTV cameras.

Unless… Sherlock rushes back to Lestrade's car and looks over the tapes again. The footage is grainy but the similarity between the man and kidnapped boy number 5 is clear. The kidnapper is the boy's biological brother. A quick scan of the police database shows he has recently been released from prison. The boy's guardians confirm the brother had tried to visit and that they had refused, wanting to keep the little boy in the dark about his adoption.

Knowing who he is makes catching the kidnapper far easier, and he is soon apprehended at Madame Tussauds and the children returned to their rightful parents.

By the time the case is solved Sherlock has almost been driven crazy by the knocking sound that echoes through his head. Logically Sherlock knows it's nothing more than his concern hammering on the locked door in his brain begging to know if John is all right. But knowing that does nothing to make the sounds easier to ignore as the noise gets louder and louder, threatening to break through and consume him.

Case over Sherlock checks his phone, but there are no new messages or missed calls. Frustrated Sherlock nearly breaks his phone in anger, but stops in time realising that it is their only way of contacting him with news.

Somehow Sherlock manages to get home before the floodgates inside him shatter and the tears start to fall. He spends several minutes fumbling with his keys and slams his hand hard against the wood twice before managing to unlock the door to his flat. Sherlock bangs it shut frightening Gladstone in the process. He slinks down against the cold wood of the door and finally lets everything he has been holding inside all day go. Sherlock cries until his shirt is soaked and his eyes sting and his cheeks are raw. His body screams and moans and spills strange horrible twisted sounds until his voice is sore. Half way through Gladstone joins in with the racket and breaks Sherlock's heart all over again. Together they cry until exhaustion overtakes them.

Dawn breaks without Sherlock noticing. The sun is hidden, blocked by thick grey clouds. As a result the sky is dull and colourless and had he seen this Sherlock might have observed that the world seemed drained, hopeless and weak without the sun.

Sherlock wakes sometime later with Gladstone in his arms. He's not John and the embrace is not nearly good enough but Sherlock clings to him as fresh tears fall silently down his cheeks. Gladstone tries to lick his tears dry but ends up making Sherlock's face even wetter. Sherlock laughs in spite of everything and pets Gladstone's damp fur.

Beside them the screen of his mobile phone flashes indicating that there's a message. It's from Mycroft and contains a hospital address and tells him to be there in three hours' time for that's when John will arrive. Sherlock lets out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding and pulls himself up off the floor. He grabs a bag and starts packing for various scenarios with bleary eyes. The weeping continues on and off as Sherlock comes across John's things and catches sight of happy photographs of the two of them.

"If only time travel were possible" he thinks as he stares at a picture of the two of them at the family cottage in the New Forest. Unable to take Gladstone with him to the hospital Sherlock texts Molly and arranges to leave him in her care.

As Sherlock gets Gladstone ready he catches sight of the mantle in the living room, where the skull sits and remembers the letter that the skull has been guarding for months. The one he should only read in the darkest worst scenario. Unable to picture things worse Sherlock plucks it out from underneath the skull with a fumbling hand. Sitting in the John's chair the one that always smells of him, Sherlock breaks the seal of the envelope and begins to read.

**Sherlock **

**If you're reading this then I'm probably dead or missing in action. If this is the case then I'm sorry. I'm sorry for putting you through this. I'm sorry for causing to worry about me and I'm sorry for breaking my promise and not coming back. But most of all I'm sorry for breaking your heart, for you are the most precious person in the world to me and just the thought of me hurting you kills me inside. **

**Before you my life was bleak and colourless and dull. Some days I wouldn't even want to get out of bed because the monotony was dragging me down. Without noticing I was slowly sinking, slowly fading into nothing. I was so alone and so unloved, I'd forgotten what it was like to be needed. Truly needed by anyone. **

**Then out of nowhere you just walked into my life and shook everything up and turned it upside-down, you shook me up and made me notice what I was missing. You made me see that I wasn't really living. You recued me from the colourless life I had and made me better. You made me so much better. You're the raven haired angel that saved me from the dark and loved me even though I'd given up on myself. You made everything better by just being around. You became my reason for being. When we were apart your love was my constant companion and the thought of your presence, your mind, your body my fantasy. Each letter you sent was a reminder that somebody somewhere loved me, wanted me, and missed me. **

**I'd hoped to spend the rest of my life with you. I hope you knew that. I'd dreamed of it, so much it hurt at times. The days spent with you were the brightest and the best of my existence. **

Sherlock's eyes begin to water some more, something that should no longer be possible, but he forces himself to finish reading the note.

**I owe you so much for loving my lonely heart. I love you.** **I love you like I've never loved anyone. **

**Forever yours **

**John**


	21. Chapter 20

Note, though I have tried to research material for this chapter there is very little on what happened to John in Afghanistan so I made this bit up using real soldier's accounts, cannon information taking into account modern advancements, photographs and various other websites. Sorry for any wild inaccuracies.

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><p>It was just a regular petrol, John's third one of the day. The sun was sitting high, the day was hot as always and the road dusty. The beautiful Afghan land mostly barren save for the scattering of nearby trees and sand coloured buildings which are marred by the signs of war. The scabby green of the grass and the watery wash of blue sky are the only real colours to be found amongst the dull golden browns. John and the rest of his team had been checking for possible insurgent activity, taking care to watch out for hidden improvised explosive devices as they carried out their patrol around the edge of a small eastern town.<p>

They'd stopped to talk with some local boys who were grazing sheep nearby. Daniel gives them some gum and one of the boys tells a joke and everyone's pretty relaxed given the circumstances for there's been no recent trouble in the area and no suspicious activity.

Despite this, something niggles in the back of John's head, like something isn't quite right. Having picked up a lot from Sherlock, John trusts these instincts and scans the area carefully.

There's a movement in a building known to be abandoned and something gleams in the sunlight just out of the corner of John's eye. John's training kicks in automatically, before his brain has time to react to the sight of the gun pointing at him.

Everything after that is a whirl of bullets and dirt and John's yelling at his men to take cover and dragging the boys to safety. They squat behind a low wall as the calm quiet of the afternoon is broken by the sound of guns firing. The sparsely populated area empties in minutes as civilians flee to avoid getting caught in the cross fire leaving John's men to fight the enemy.

John gives the boys a quick once over, checking them for bullet wounds and is relived to find them unscathed. John tells them to get to safety while his men provide cover. The boys run like lightening and a tiny part of John wishes he could go with them. The same thought crosses every other soldier there, but they stand their ground and do their duty.

A quick survey of the area tells him his men are slightly outnumbered, nine to seven, but they're better trained and better armed. That knowledge doesn't make the bullets the enemy fires any less deadly though. John returns their fire with his own but like the doctor he is, his main concern lies with the safety of his men. John calls back to base to let them know of their situation and his men's current position.

The conflict seems to last for hours with the rounds hitting near them, kicking the dust up and impeding their sight but in reality it's probably nearer twenty or thirty minutes. John hears the bullets whistling close by their heads but there's little John can do except tell his men to keep firing and try to lead them into proper cover.

Jeffrey goes down badly and John rushes to provide medical attention. He's been caught in the side of the head, it's nothing too deadly and brain damage is unlikely but the bullet took a considerable amount of flesh with it and blood seeps heavily from the wound. As John works trying to stem the flow of blood, David provides covering fire. John works quickly and applies special gauze which helps with the clotting process and it isn't long before the bleeding stops.

So intent is John on treating Jeff he fails to notice as a bullet rips cleanly through his shoulder. The bullet is in and out of him in a matter of seconds but it's not until Bill notices the large patch of red on his shirt that anyone realises John's been hit. Realising he's injured pain shoots through John and it's worse than anything he's ever felt before. By that time Jeff is stable and the most of the enemy has either fled or is dead. Two shooters remain but they're low on ammo and have a terrible aim. The others get one of them as John tries to fix himself up with the wrong hand.

He fumbles with his pack and Bill, a trained nurse, takes over and gives John something for the pain. Only it doesn't seem to work and he can't help but yell in agony. Shortly after that everything becomes hazy, as John begins to go into shock due to the blood loss. As he lies there in pain all John can think about is how much he wants to live and how much he wants to see Sherlock again. John thinks about his smile and his kiss and tries to picture what Sherlock was wearing and what he did and said the last time John saw him.

John is still stubbornly clinging onto consciousness as the medical emergency response team they called for arrives. They hear it first, the helicopter hovering noisily overhead ready to take him and the rest of the wounded to the nearest field hospital. And at that moment in time that sound is the sweetest sound on earth for it means there is hope.

John hears them talking to him, the specialist medical personnel as they strap him to a stretcher and carry him from the dusty chaos onto the chopper. But their voices seem distant and faint and John's head seems scrambled and he can't understand their questions. He hears someone let out a strangled cry in pain and it might be him or one of his men he can't tell. He calls out Sherlock's name and imagines that the hand that squeezes his belongs to his genius detective. The helicopter starts moving and with that thought fixed firmly in his mind John gives in to the darkness and sleeps.

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><p>He wakes briefly during emergency surgery and flits in and out of consciousness during transportation but it's not until he is back on English soil that he properly regains consciousness.<p>

The first time John wakes, he wakes to the feel of unfamiliar bed sheets. Ones which are far cleaner and softer than the ones he is used to while serving in Afghanistan but are a far cry from the expensive Egyptian cotton that covers his and Sherlock's bed. His eye lids feel heavy and the bed pleasant enough and even in his heavily medicated state John can almost hear the soft soothing notes of Sherlock's violin serenading him in his slumber. The traces of a smile ghost his features at the sweet sound and John quickly slips back into sleep without ever opening his eyes.

When John wakes properly some time later it is dark. The first thing his eyes manage to focus on is Sherlock, lying near his legs with his body half slumped out of a chair and half slouched over the foot of the bed. His face is hidden and John hasn't seen him for months but even so John recognises him by his mop of long curly black hair. Sherlock's ridiculously expensive suit is crumpled and unkempt. His pale hands loosely fist the crisp white sheets and overall he looks almost as bad as John feels. Sherlock looks exhausted as if he hasn't slept for days and knowing him John is probably correct, though given the circumstance John is hardly angry at Sherlock for he'd be the same if their roles were reversed.

John tries to stretch a hand out to touch Sherlock only to be reminded as to the reason why he is currently in hospital as pain shoots through his shoulder at the slight movement. One of the various machines he's currently connected to beeps slightly and for a moment John is sure Sherlock is going to wake. He doesn't though which is a relief for John can tell he needs his rest.

Knowing his way around hospitals a quick scan of the room tells him he's in some fancy private clinic that is probably largely funded by Sherlock's parents and that he's been out of it for some time judging by the little camp Sherlock has made in the corner and the decorations that seem to flood his room adding much needed cheer to the clean sterile room. It's an impressive collection of balloons and flowers and cards that speak of many trips to the gift shop taken probably by Sherlock while the doctors got on with their examinations.

"So this is what it takes for you to get me flowers" He thinks as he rests his eyes once more.


	22. Chapter 21

Reviews welcome as always :D

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><p>Sherlock arrives at the hospital to find Anthea waiting for him at reception. She doesn't tell him she can tell he has been crying and he doesn't comment on her recent weight gain. Wordlessly she pulls him into an awkward embrace, one that is made slightly difficult by her baby bump. Secretly glad of her company he returns her hug even though he knows Mycroft has sent her to keep an eye on him.<p>

She takes him to a private room and lets him in to see John. Sherlock's heart breaks at the sight of him, lying there unconscious, bandaged and wired up to various machines and monitors. The need to go to him is monumental but at the same time Sherlock's feet refuse to move least this is just a dream and he wakes to an uglier reality in which John is dead. Sherlock stands there looking at his John all broken and hurt and his throat tightens uncomfortably making it hard to breath. He starts to cry but doesn't notice until his cheeks are damp with the tears he cannot seem to stop crying over this man, over John.

A man in a doctor's coat carrying a clipboard sweeps into the room. The man introduces himself as John's main doctor. Dr Smith as Sherlock learns the man is called quickly sets about discussing John's treatment with Sherlock even though he is not strictly speaking John's family (yet). Being all that John has, Sherlock doesn't correct the Doctor when he presumes they're already married and calls him Mr Watson and lets him put Sherlock down as John's next of kin.

Sherlock cries again, as Dr Smith explains how incredibly lucky John is that the shot barely nicked bone when it hit his subclavian artery and tore through muscle but by then he's long past caring who sees his tears fall. Dr Smith gives him a tissue and tells Sherlock about the blood transfusion John received and how with extensive rest and professional care John should be healthy enough to start rehabilitation therapy in a little while to work on building up his damaged muscle.

By the time the doctor leaves, the need to reassure himself that John is really alive is unbearable. He needs to feel John's pulse beneath his fingers and hear his heartbeat. But keenly aware of the various tubes currently connected to John Sherlock keeps his hands shoved deep within his pockets terrified that even the lightest touch will break something or hurt him. Sensing his distress Anthea places a hand on his back.

"We've the best people looking after him Sherlock. He'll be all right."

Sherlock spends the next few days glued to John's side watching him sleep, silently afraid that he will never see the bright blue of John's eyes staring at him lovingly again. Anthea stays with him as much as she can for Mycroft is in the midst of elections (whose Sherlock doesn't remember). When she is around she forces him to eat and rest and generally tries to mother him and for the most part Sherlock lets her.

Each day that passes John begins to look slightly better, more like the man Sherlock remembers and Sherlock heart begins to soar a little more.

The first time John (officially) wakes he has been in hospital for roughly two and a bit weeks and Sherlock has been dragged off to breakfast. A nurse is in the process of checking John's IV fluid when he opens his eyes and frightens the life out of her. At the sound of her yelp of surprise doctors flood his room in seconds. They perform a quick examination, make sure John is alright and inform him of the date and his location and call Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn't even bother to finish his coffee and returns as quickly as his legs can allow. Anthea follows after him but takes her time leisurely trotting after him in her flats, a pastry in hand. She waits outside to avoid disturbing their reunion.

The look on Sherlock's face at the sight of John awake is priceless, it's as if all his Christmases and birthdays have come all at once and he doesn't know which box to open first. Relief floods Sherlock's face as he takes John's hand and his smile is so wide and bright that Anthea can't help but worry he might pull something. She secretly takes a photograph of him and forwards it to the rest of the family.

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><p>"I bet the nurses think you're a right terror." Says John later on when he's fit enough to make the stroll down to the toilet by himself.<p>

"I bet you've already told them who is cheating on who and which of them has a sock puppet addiction."

"Why would I do that? They're making you better." Replies Sherlock sincerely with soft affectionate eyes that make John feel like a bit of a tit. Sherlock smiles to show he hasn't taken offence and then teases John for his frankly ridiculous suggestion of sock puppet and in hushed tones explains that the new orderly has a penchant for collecting novelty mugs.

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><p>The better John gets the more twisted up inside Sherlock feels for he knows that eventually John is going to ask about his work. Work that is his no more. John's life might have been spared but his injury means his army career is over. Guilt swells up inside him the longer he keeps it from John but despite this Sherlock does his best to remain silent about John's retirement for the doctors who believe it might hamper John's recovery.<p>

While John's off doing his physiotherapy Sherlock spends a considerable amount of time thinking about how John will react to life without his work, wondering if the boredom might kill him and deliberating possible ways to keep his beloved entertained. Knowing John he will not be content to be a simple house-husband, but as terrible as it is to admit it no one will be willing to hire a surgeon with a severe hand tremor. He could do other things though; like locum work as a GP or work in one of the many local A&E's Sherlock is well acquainted with, although even that might cause him to die of boredom.

Sherlock's eureka moment comes when John catches sight of some crime scene photographs Sherlock is reviewing for Lestrade and correctly informs him that the victim's injuries indicate they've been killed with a plastic spatula. Sherlock jumps out of his chair in delight. That was it! John could share his work. John was clever and good with a gun and he'd had more than joyed himself when helping before on private cases. It'd be perfect the two of them together fighting crime as a bad-ass married couple. Now all Sherlock has to do is figure out a way to convince John of this.

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><p>The conversation of retirement comes up much sooner than Sherlock predicted or would like as a few days later John interrupts, as Sherlock is telling John about how he has received reports that suggest John's injured colleagues are recovering nicely up in Birmingham, to ask how long he is on medical leave for. Sherlock grasps his hand tightly and his voice grows quiet.<p>

"Indefinitely, they've retired you John."

The look of pain and upset that flashes across John's face at his words is tragic. John's limp starts after that, though both he and Sherlock pretend not to notice.

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><p>"You don't have to stay you know." Says John suddenly one rainy afternoon while in the middle of one of his darkest moods.<p>

"What?" Replies Sherlock confused.

"I mean I understand if you want to break things off now…" Explains John eyeing the watch on Sherlock's wrist, the one John gave Sherlock when he proposed.

"Break what off, the engagement?"

"Well yes."

"No." Says Sherlock struggling to breathe as his world starts to cave in once more.

"John if you've found someone else or if you're bored of me then I think you'd better say so now and spare us all the pain." Says Sherlock turning away from where John sits by the window, his voice suddenly hard and cold. John frowns as he tries to find the right words.

"That's not what I meant, Sherlock. I love you. It's just that well after all this I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't want me any more. I'm hardly the same man you agreed to marry after all. I'm not an army Captain any more. I'm broken Sherlock."

Sherlock softens at his words in relief. John still wants him, John still loves him.

"I'll always want you John." He says crossing the room, lessening the distance between them. He comes to rest in front of John and leans down to place a kiss on John's stubbly cheek. Seeing the distrust and disbelief in John's face he continues with his declarations.

"You said once that you were broken and that I fixed you. I'll do it again." John turns to face away from him but Sherlock brings a hand to his chin and turns him back around. Sherlock shifts so he's on his knees before John, begging him to listen.

"John" He says gently.

"I don't care how you look, the body's just transport, it's your mind I'm in love with. I'm not going to love you any less because you got hurt." He punctuates his words with a kiss and caresses John's face.

"Your scars don't make you any less beautiful to me." He whispers staring into John's china blue eyes and meaning every word. To him John is gorgeous, scars and all. No one can tell him otherwise and make him believe it. To him John is home and love and undoubtedly perfect in every way.

"I've only got one heart and it's yours John." He sniffs as real tears threaten to well up in his eyes.

"I'd marry you now if you'd let me."

"Please believe me John, you're my everything." He murmurs pulling him close into a hug.

His words seem to work as soon John's smiling quietly with his lips pressed up against Sherlock's cheek in a sort of kiss and the warm hand resting on Sherlock's shoulder stops trembling.


	23. Chapter 22

Am currently ill and stuck inside so thought I'd give you, my lovely readers an update.

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><p>A few months after Sherlock returns to work full time following his short yet sudden mysterious disappearance off the face of the earth for supposed family issues (which had surprised a lot of the Yard who seemed to think Sherlock had been grown in some secret laboratory somewhere) Lestrade finds himself being woken at half eight on his first day off in two weeks by the loud honk of a car horn.<p>

Getting up to investigate Greg scrambles into a faded pair of jeans and a plain T-shirt and fumbles downstairs and pulls open his door to discover Sherlock waiting outside his house with a large family car, the sort that can seat around six people.

"Sherlock you do know what the time is right?" He asks extremely irritated having been working until around half eleven the night before.

"Yes we're late I know, but Bill insisted on stopping for coffee. I didn't know what you liked so we got you a latte." Sherlock says gesturing to one of the men sitting in the car behind him. Too confused to speak Greg waits for Sherlock to explain himself. Silence falls between them and Sherlock looks at him impatiently.

"Well hurry up then. You can put your bag in the back next to Gladstone's dog box and the suits."

Greg stares back at him confused and decides to try again.

"May I ask why you've woken me up so early?" He says rubbing at his sleepy face.

"Because it's an eight hour trip and we've dinner reservations" Is Sherlock's ever helpful reply.

Still utterly clueless as to why Sherlock is bothering him at home Greg asks if there's been a murder. Before Sherlock can reply the words "God I hope not" come spilling out of the open car window.

Ignoring the comment Sherlock looks at that ridiculously expensive watch of his and informs Greg with a fixed stare that he has exactly five minutes to get an overnight bag together and get his arse in the car. Reluctantly Greg gives in and does just that, stopping only momentarily to give the still sleeping recently reunited wife a quick kiss on the forehead and leave her a note on the dining table.

Four and a half minutes later Greg is slamming the door to his house, thankful the missus is a heavy sleeper and climbs into the car. Once inside he's handed a coffee and a pastry by a man sitting in the front seat called Bill Murray (who wastes no time explaining he's not that Bill Murray). Beside him a man in an ugly cardigan takes his photograph with a large bulky old fashioned non digital camera. The flash burns brightly blinding him momentarily and the man apologises as he fiddles with his camera trying to turn off the flash. Once Greg can see again Greg learns the blond man is called John Watson, which for some reason seems strangely familiar along with his face though Greg's almost certain they haven't met before.

Sherlock starts the car with a jolt interrupting his thoughts and reminding Greg that he's now sitting in a car being driven by Sherlock of all people. Not having a death wish Greg quickly checks that Sherlock actually has a licence.

"Of course I do." Is the detective's reply followed quickly by "And don't distract me while I'm reversing!" As Sherlock narrowly avoids hitting several parked cars.

As they slowly make their way through London traffic to god knows where it slowly dawns of him that he has effectively been kidnapped by a bunch of strangers and a consulting mad genius who just two weeks ago gave him a blank card and then made him swear to keep the contents of said card secret. Feeling ever so slightly concerned Greg decides to once again ask what the hell is happening.

"We're going to Northumberland" Replies Sherlock excitedly.

"And why the hell are we going to Northumberland of all places?" Asks Greg feeling more and more annoyed each passing minute, by the situation he finds himself in.

"It has a castle and simply exquisite beaches." Explains Sherlock without actually explaining anything at all.

Before Greg can question him any further the song Hot Blooded starts playing on the radio and Bill turns the volume up and fumbles along with the words and John starts singing along with him, his voice slightly husky but good and evidently Sherlock likes this song as well for he taps the steering wheel in time to the beat. Even Greg finds himself joining in the middle of the chorus and by the time the song ends Greg can't remember why he was upset at being dragged off for an impromptu lad's vacation in the first place.

By the time they get past Northampton Greg is having a great time, having bonded with Bill over a love of science fiction films and books by Arthur Conan Doyle. John is great too if a little quiet until Sherlock prompts him to tell Greg about that time they went to America and caught a serial killer (which is surprising as Greg thought Sherlock generally preferred to work alone). Though reluctant at first it is soon apparent that John has a certain talent for telling stories and it isn't until Bill informs them they've arrived at the service station that Greg realises that John has been talking for nearly a whole hour and they've been driving for slightly over two.

Getting out of the car Greg takes a quick stroll around the car park to shake the sleep from his legs and let Gladstone get some fresh air before heading to the dining area after the others. Once inside Greg and Gladstone are greeted by possibly the strangest sight imaginable, Sherlock Holmes actually eating a proper meal.

Leaving the dog with his master Greg goes and gets something for himself. By the time he returns John has wondered off to the slot machines with Bill and Sherlock is feeding Gladstone.

With the others out of the way Greg takes the opportunity to ask how on earth Sherlock became friends with Bill and John as honestly before today he hadn't even known Sherlock had friends besides him (and he wasn't even really sure he counted in Sherlock's eyes).

"Don't get me wrong their great lads" He says with a mouth full of expensive pie and chips.

"It's just they're normal army blokes and you, well you like opera and science stuff."

"It's just him. It's just John really." Says Sherlock looking across the busy service station at nothing in particular.

"I'm indebted to Bill of course for what he did for John and he's not bad company but you needn't worry, besides John you're the closest thing I have to a friend, that's why I asked you."

Confused and a little bit hurt to discover he's not Sherlock's best friend despite having known him the longest Greg can't help but blurt out.

"Asked me what?"

Sherlock turns his head to look at him and sighs with that particular why must people be so stupid look on his face.

"To be my witness of course."

"Your what?"

"You do remember me asking you a month ago if you would be willing, owing to certain legal formalities, to act as a witness for me during the confirmation in law of a formal and permanent alliance between myself and my partner."

"Er yes" Replies Greg understanding very little of what Sherlock actually said but recalling it being said before and being just as confused the first time.

"Good, I was starting to think you'd forgotten."

"Forgotten what?"

"About tomorrow"

"What's tomorrow?" Ask Greg receiving a cold look from Sherlock that seems to scream I'm trying to resist the urge to throttle you right now.

"The bleeding wedding ceremony of course!" Cuts in Bill returning from the bathroom, with slightly damp hands.

"Civil partnership, we're having a civil partnership" Corrects Sherlock automatically.

Greg's brain gives up trying to follow the conversation then and there and instead shorts out like a dodgy fuse causing his muscles to stop working momentarily but even so he's vaguely aware of a photograph being taken of his stupid face by Bill with the camera.

Returning to himself Greg's just about to ask who is getting married when John chooses that moment to return clutching a toy elephant in a little blue hoodie that he has somehow managed to liberate from a grabber machine.

"I hope you didn't spend our entire month's rent on that thing" Says Sherlock stretching out a hand expectantly for the toy with a funny happy little look on his face that seems genuine. John gives it to him with a smile and sits back down unaware of Greg's recent melt down. Sherlock spends a few moments happily examining the toy like a child before kissing John sweetly on the cheek. Unused to see Sherlock demonstrate any kind of affection for anything besides his dog Greg feels his cheeks heat up in embarrassment of witnessing something so personal.

And suddenly the bits and pieces of the fuzzy puzzle rearrange themselves to make a complete picture inside Greg's head. John is Sherlock's lover and they're getting married.

It explains so much from Sherlock's recent brand of particular weirdness to little things like how John can make Sherlock behave and eat and the way John calls him Shirley without facing the scorn of the detective who abhors nicknames. It also makes him question almost everything he thinks he knows about Sherlock.

"You're getting married? You and John?" He asks trying to make sure he's not gone mad and started to imagine things.

"Honestly Lestrade, it's as if you've got amnesia or something. Do you not remember getting my invitation? No? But I wrote it in invisible ink and everything. Come on surely you remember holding me a stag do on Tuesday? You got utterly pissed and slept on our couch. John made you breakfast."

Looking back though Greg faintly recalls taking Sherlock out to the pub with the forensic lads (excluding Anderson who was on probation following an anonymous complaint of harassment) after a particularly gruesome investigation and the slight glimmer of delight that had crossed the detectives face at the invite.

Greg also recalls waking to a good fry up and having a long conversation about football with a blond he had assumed to be Sherlock's flatmate (it was only now he remembered Sherlock's apartment had only one bedroom).

"Christ this is going to be a long trip" He thinks as he asks for someone to please explain everything properly from the beginning.

Sometime later having consumed quite a bit of coffee and having cleared up a lot of misunderstandings (apparently Sherlock had meant something completely different to I'm getting mental treatment when he announced he had started seeing a doctor roughly five years ago) and heard a bit more information about Sherlock's sex life then he really needed to (how you could _fuck a limp right out of someone Greg had no clue) _Greg finally understood what the hell was happening. Well most of it at least.

"Why are we going to Northumberland then? Surely you can get married in London."

"Well I've no family to invite and Sherlock no close friends so we thought it'd be fun to elope." Explains John.

"That and it's a Holmes tradition."

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><p><span>I hope you liked this chapter and found it considerably more uplifting and humorous then the last as I couldn't help messing with Lestrade a little.<span>

The next chapter will be the wedding!


	24. Chapter 23

Quick note, having read through this story myself I am slightly amused at how terribly fluffy this whole fic has turned out. Also sorry for the gap between updates, I'm currently in the middle of moving.

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><p>The one thing John hates about his relationship with Sherlock is seeing a look of surprise appear on people's faces when he explains that the two of them are together in the romantic sense. It infuriates him how often he finds himself correcting idiots who mistake the two of them as being just friends, room-mates or colleagues as Sherlock is more than that, he's John's life and John is his it annoys him that they can miss something as obvious as that given the way they look at each other.<p>

John knows the way people look at Sherlock, how they look at his body with lust filled eyes as if he is some exceptional jewel just as John knows that Sherlock could have anyone he wanted if he were so inclined. John knows about the glares Molly sends him as she watches him with Sherlock and wonders how he could have tricked Sherlock into falling in love with him. John recalls occasions when people have been so bold as to proposition Sherlock in front of him (even if Sherlock isn't aware of it himself).

John knows that in comparison he is quite ordinary, he fully understands the look of confusion sent his way by those that can't quite understand how he got so lucky as to be with Sherlock but nothing anyone can say or do can wipe the smile off John's face, for he knows Sherlock considers himself to be the lucky one in their relationship and no matter what sort of offer he gets he wouldn't trade John for the world. John doesn't mind being ordinary to everyone else as he knows that to Sherlock he is extraordinary (even if he doesn't say it out loud) John knows this by the way Sherlock takes his hand when he's cold and Sherlock kisses him.

So John is hardly surprised when Greg asks him why he's marrying Sherlock. They're alone at the hotel bar having a quick celebratory pint while Sherlock gives Gladstone a walk and tries to get over the devastating news that no one reads his website. Across the room from them Bill is busy chatting up a barmaid but besides them and a few other small groups the room is empty making it the perfect opportunity for them to talk.

"The heart wants what it wants. There's no logic to these things. You meet someone and you fall in love and that's that." Replies John hoping to put an end to the conversation, not wanting to receive yet another talk about his intentions towards Sherlock (the ones he'd received from Mycroft, Sherrinford and Mummy had been enough thank you).

"Yeah but it's Sherlock we're talking about."

"So?"

Greg gives him a look.

"He's rude, manipulative and arrogant!"

"I know." Replies John with a hopelessly happy look the love-struck often have.

"And you still want to be with him?"

John takes a swig of his beer and looks at Greg with serious eyes.

"Look I've known Sherlock for a long time, years in fact and I've been in love with him most of that time and been dating him for five, we're living together and have a pet together, we're not into rushing things. Were just making what we feel official."

Greg sighs and tries another approach.

"I don't mean to put you off marrying him or anything but you do know about the drugs don't you?"

"We're well aware of each other's vices thanks." Retorts John, thinking of his own gambling issues.

"Besides that's in the past, he's clean. He doesn't even smoke anymore."

Silence falls between them and they sit there sipping there pints for what seems like ages and John idly notes Bill has disappeared along with the bird he'd been chatting up.

"You know what they call him down at the yard?" Asks Greg breaking the silence.

John shakes his head though a niggling feeling stirs in his stomach as he recalls that Sherlock had mentioned he wasn't well liked.

"Psychopath, git, wanker, smart arse and they're just the nice ones." John shoots him a murderous look over his half-drunk pint and tries to refrain from bashing a man who in the course of an afternoon he had quite come to like.

"Look I didn't mean it like that, Sherlock's a great man and one day if we're lucky he may be a good one. It's just do you really want to spend your life with him of all people?"

John sits there slightly stunned for a moment or two before finishing his drink in one go.

"That's the difference between the two of us I suppose, you think he might be a good man one day and I already know he is one."

And with that John gets up and heads off to bed.

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><p><span>Okay the wedding is coming soon promise xx<span>


	25. Chapter 24

This is not the wedding chapter (I'm horrible I know, sorry- I am working on it) but here is pre-wedding porn instead so I think you won't be too upset. Warning smut below!

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><p>Ever the traditionalist Sherlock had insisted upon spending the eve of their wedding night apart, for reasons understood only by himself, resulting in separate rooms. Knowing that much of the money used to pay for the wedding was coming from Sherlock's parents (who had insisted) John hadn't protested too much about this extra expense even if it did seem a little unnecessary and ridiculous in these modern times.<p>

Used to Sherlock's smothering warmth and octopus like arms John spends half the night tossing and turning until he can bare Sherlock's absence no longer. Pulling on his moss green dressing gown on over his mismatched set of pyjamas (consisting of a plain blue top and stripy red bottoms) John sneaks out into the hallway and down the corridor to Sherlock's room desperate to see him again.

He pauses momentarily outside the door where just hours ago he had kissed Sherlock goodnight (following a brief yet somewhat vocal talk about his so called pal Lestrade) and fishes in his pocket for the key card he had stolen from his beloved while saying his aforementioned goodnight.

Before he can change his mind John quickly slides the key card in the door and enters to find Sherlock sprawled out across a queen sized bed in expensive pyjamas clutching the toy elephant John had won him earlier in the afternoon. The room is dark save for a faint glow of moonlight that dances across the room. Sherlock's head turns to face the door as it scrapes open and John is greeted by impossible stormy eyes and the smirk of a smile.

"You should be asleep." Says John, unable to come up with anything better at the sight Sherlock clad in sultry silk, his voice barely a whisper in the near darkness.

"And you should be in your own room." Answers Sherlock, his own voice low and sensual.

"My fiancé will be furious if he catches you with me." He adds, his eyes smouldering with lust. Catching on to Sherlock's little game John closes the door behind him with a grin, suddenly understanding Sherlock's desire for separate rooms.

"Don't worry he won't find out, I'll make sure of that."

Sherlock lets go of his toy, letting it fall to the floor absent mindedly and pulls himself up to sit on the backs of his legs spreading them widely as he does so. John takes this as an invitation and steps further into the room, carefully making his way towards the bed. Due to the lowness of the bed the height difference between John and Sherlock is made almost non-existent allowing John to gently capture Sherlock's lips with his own without having to strain his neck.

One hand finds its way into Sherlock's wavy locks which are still slightly damp from the rain while the other travels down the curve of Sherlock's back taking in the soft glossy feel of silk pyjamas beneath his fingers before coming to a stop on Sherlock's arse, gently squeezing the sweet plump flesh. Sherlock groans into the kiss, wrapping his long arms loosely around John's neck. Sherlock presses into John letting the thickly stitched initials over his heart rub against John's chest as he erases the space separating them.

Pulling apart slightly John's hand departs from the tangle of Sherlock's dark curls to roughly trace the shape of the letters JW in the darkness. The fire inside him builds as Sherlock ruffles his short teddy bear hair and nips at his ears lightly, gently sucking on the sensitive flesh with a tongue experienced at providing him with pleasure.

John's bad leg aches slightly causing him to place his left knee up against the bed, resting it in the gap between Sherlock's legs. As he does so it makes contact with something large and hard. Sherlock gasps lewdly as John slowly starts to rock his leg against the hardness. Increasing the pressure slightly draws out yet more delicious whimpers from Sherlock's delicate throat.

"Need you, want you. Want to be inside you." Huff's John as he clutches desperately to Sherlock in between fiery kisses.

John's own arousal strains against its cottony confines begging for release as Sherlock's mouth starts to do wicked things to his throat. Tugging off his robe John makes up for the sudden loss of warmth by coaxing Sherlock even closer. The remainder of their clothes rub awkwardly as they rut against each other, preventing their roaming hands from properly feeling each other's warmth. Frustration slowly builds in John as his neglected cock aches against the prison of his ever tightening boxer shorts.

John fumbles in the darkness fighting to undo the infuriatingly tiny buttons of his lover's pyjama top. Refusing to be beaten by a simple garment, John attacks Sherlock's pyjamas with a growl causing buttons fly across the room in his haste to reach the milky white skin formally hidden beneath the rich cloth. Buttons gone John makes quick work on the rest of Sherlock's clothes, freeing large expanses of pale snowy skin which he kisses hungrily.

Excited by John's boldness Sherlock eagerly pulls at John's night things hurrying to undress him in return as the need to feel the warmth of their naked flesh pressed against each other consumes them.

Self-awareness flares inside John as Sherlock unabashed by his own beautiful nakedness pulls John's top over his head, revealing his ugly scarred shoulder beneath.

Noticing his embarrassment, Sherlock pulls him closer and covers his face with soft kisses while a hand slides over John's firm shoulder towards the now healed wound. His talented violinist's fingers carefully trace the scar cut into John's shoulder taking care not to agitate the sensitive skin, murmuring compliments as he does so.

"Brave, beautiful, wonderful, strong, handsome, mine…"

John's heart so rises as he stares into Sherlock's deep grey eyes and sees the truth of Sherlock's words reflected back at him. To Sherlock he is all these things and more and considering Sherlock is not a man to give compliments lightly it is not long before John's courage returns tenfold.

They shift on the bed, Sherlock letting go of John and falling backwards to rest comfortably above the duvet. John crawls onto the bed after him, slipping in between Sherlock's ridiculously long legs, pinning him to the mattress with another kiss. John presses close urgently rubbing their newly freed erections together eliciting a low howl of approval from Sherlock.

Sherlock wiggles beneath John, his long arms reaching for the drawer beside the bed and the bottle of lube that had been stashed there earlier. Passing the bottle to John Sherlock takes advantage of his position below John to ogle John's fit frame, his tight pecks and well defined stomach muscles made strong by years of stringent exercise.

One hand gently brushes up John's belly to his pert dusty brown nipples while the other rests on the curve of John's hip caressing the light covering of freckles that dust John's tanned skin. Sherlock plays with the tip of John's nipple rubbing circles with his thumb causing John to make the most agreeable of noises as he fiddles with the lid of the bottle, squeezing ample lube into his dominant hand and rubbing it into his fingers coating them generously before letting the bottle fall between two folds of linin on the already messed up bed.

It's not the first time they've done this but it's the first time John has taken the lead since he was injured so he takes extra care to stretch Sherlock properly, gradually inserting one lube coated finger into Sherlock's tight opening and working him open with precision before inserting another. John brushes his fingers against Sherlock's prostrate with soft feather like strokes as he prepares Sherlock, sliding wet fingers in and out of him, teasing his darling nearer to his release while ignoring his own.

John greedily feasts upon the sounds each artful touch draws from Sherlock until he is fisting the covers with one hand, twisting the other through John's short boyish locks and biting at trembling lips pleading for John to hurry up and fuck him. John lovingly complies, freeing his right hand from Sherlock's tight grip in order to grope around the bed in search of the lost bottle of lube. He finds it quickly and the blood surges downwards to his dick in anticipation.

The removal of his fingers from Sherlock's spread hole elicits yet another eager cry from Sherlock's lips as he withers on the bed aching for John's touch. John coats his hard prick in lube and Sherlock parts his legs wider impatient for John to fill him. Kneeling down John enters him slowly giving Sherlock time to adjust to his impressive length, savouring the intense feel of Sherlock's heat as it surrounds him.

Surging his hips forward, John thrusts deeply into Sherlock; taking his erection in hand as he does so. Their hearts thump wildly in excitement as they move together in unison creating a thunderous rhythm. Desperate for more contact Sherlock wraps his long legs around John's middle, curling them tightly around John's sturdy frame, impaling John further inside.

Taking advantage of the better position John takes hold of Sherlock's swollen dick stroking him lovingly. Pressing his long fingers up into his mouth Sherlock tries in vain to stifle his sweet audible cries as John begins to increase his pace.

A sudden twist of John's palm brings Sherlock to an abrupt end as an intense climax overcomes him, his back arching upwards as he cries something along the lines of Ohmygodyesjohn. Sherlock's walls tighten reflexively as he comes, his ejaculation spilling thickly onto John's stomach painting him with his seed. John comes undone shortly after crying out Sherlock's name as he releases with a shudder, collapsing bonelessy on top of Sherlock.

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><p><span>Hope you liked this fill, as I'm still unsure about writing full sex scenes. <span>


	26. Chapter 25

A quick mini update enjoy!

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><p>They lie there in the dark curled up tight against each other, front to back, naked and content beneath the dirtied bedcovers just two people who are loved and in love, so deeply and irrevocably by the other that nothing else matters but the intense beating of their hearts.<p>

Sherlock whispers John's name quietly unsure if he has already succumbed to the sweet seductions of sleep. John strokes a curl away from Sherlock's neck and kisses him softly.

"What is it Sher?"

"I know we agreed not to… But I wrote something for you, some vows. Would it be okay if I said them now, while we're alone?"

"Of course love." Replies John knowing how terribly private Sherlock is when it comes to everything, especially affection. John knows Sherlock loves him deeply and tries his best to show that he cares in his own little ways, just as John knows Sherlock finds it easier to convey his thoughts and feelings through texts and letters and that his love is often his most chattiest when the two of them are snuggled together in bed.

John's thoughts drift to the vows in his coat pocket back in his own room.

"You can tell me yours as well if you like" Adds Sherlock as if reading his mind, turning over to look at John enveloping him in his long arms as he rests his head against John's chest.

"I can't get anything past you can I?" Asks John relaxing further into Sherlock's warmth.

"No but you love that about me" Replies Sherlock tracing the patterns for what John suspects to be chemical formulas into his stomach.

"John, you bring me warmth where before there was nothing but coldness." Starts Sherlock, his voice somewhat strained from his earlier exertions.

"You are a conductor of light in a sea of darkness and I will strive to be worthy of your love through both the good and the bad." He continues hoarsely.

"I am yours now and forever and I promise to guard, cherish and protect you all the days of my life."

John's heart overflows with happiness at Sherlock's declaration of unending love. Overcome with emotion he struggles to find his own voice with which to profess his own oath.

"You're my best friend and I pledge to share my life with you. I will love you through good and the bad, through joy and sorrow. I will try to be understanding, to trust in you completely and to accept you unconditionally. I give you my heart and promise to stay with you for all eternity."

Sherlock entwines their hands in lieu of exchanging rings which would be done in the morning once they put on their suits and go sign the paperwork and have their photographs taken and make everything official and permanent but none of that matters really for this ceremony of sorts is everything as bit as real to them as anything approved or recognised by anyone else.

"what do we do now?" He asks unsure what follows the saying of vows.

"We kiss."

"Oh good, I like the sound of that"


	27. Chapter 26

Okay so this is the wedding chapter!

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><p>John's morning starts off well; waking to find Sherlock wrapped tightly in his arms and is quickly improved upon by a delicious fully cooked breakfast accompanied by a sincere apology from Greg (who genuinely appeared to regret what he had said last night).<p>

Sherlock however, being Sherlock forgives him with a haughty look and the words:

"I wouldn't be marrying John if I doubted either of our feelings." Before getting up to help himself to a second cup of coffee and some organic yoghurt. He passes Bill on his way over to the small food buffet and silently deduces he has spent the night scrubbing the floors of the blonde bar maid from the night before.

Bill weaves his way through the crowded tables in the breakfast room and thumps John on the shoulder before taking a seat and helping himself to some toast.

"You lucky git! Practically everyone heard what you were up to last night, and I was on the third floor."

John turns slightly pink at his words and Greg's jaw seems to fall off.

"That was you two? Jesus, I thought someone was making a porno."

John's face turns dark red and he takes a bite of his breakfast sausage, unable to form any sort of coherent reply to their comments.

"I assure you nothing about last night was faked Inspector." Sherlock says reappearing with a smirk on his face.

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><p>Breakfast done with John finds himself quickly banished, sent back to his own hotel room in order to get ready as Sherlock preps and primps in the room that last night had been theirs with Greg watching over him. As much as he knew Sherlock loved him, he couldn't deny that Sherlock was a bit of a flight risk, no doubt leaving John at the altar at the first sign of a particularly gruesome murder case.<p>

As he slips on his charcoal coloured lounge suit (thankful he had managed to talk Sherlock out of making him wear his old uniform during the ceremony in exchange for allowing Sherlock to call him Captain in bed) John tries not to think about just how much money has been spent on his suit alone and consoles himself with the thought that he could always wear it to other fancy events.

A good five minutes are spent fumbling with his tie which the shop assistant had called Icelandic snow but really just looked white to John. John had to smile at the remembrance of that bloody long shopping trip and the way Sherlock had forced him to try on several hundred similar suits supposedly looking for the perfect one while secretly questioning the shop assistant about his involvement in his room-mates murder (the mind blowing sex that followed the success of that case had more than made up for spending five hours being treated like a ken doll).

Doing up the buttons of his waistcoat he pinches himself slightly unable to believe that in a very short amount of time he will be married, to Sherlock no less. Smiling John goes to put on his shoes only to discover Gladstone had somehow found their hiding place and decided that John's shoes where his newest toy. A brief play fight breaks out but in the end John is the winner. His prize a slobbered paired of shoes and a slightly ruffled suit but nothing too damaging beside a few new creases.

By the time he has finished dressing Bill is waiting for him outside with the rings, leaving him no time for last minute panic attacks. Grabbing Gladstone's leash tightly, they make their way over to the taxi waiting outside.

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><p>Once dressed Sherlock spends a considerable amount of time in the bathroom fiddling with his hair trying to get it to do something ignoring Greg's cries of for goodness sake you're going to be late for your own bloody wedding, before ultimately giving up on it, and giving in to Greg's demands that he hurry the hell up and get in the taxi already as they're behind schedule.<p>

The closer they get to the venue the harder Sherlock finds it to contain himself as his brain whirls with excitement like an out of control fairground ride. Of the twelve generations of Holmes who had chosen to elope instead of having a boring church wedding, Sherlock is pleased to note that none of them had ever been wed in a castle before.

Mummy and daddy had been married in a lighthouse, Sherrinford while on his gap year around Europe (no one quite knew where as language was never one of Sherry's strong suits) and Mycroft had married in the university library where he had first met Anthea (whose real name Sherlock knew was probably Margaret). While all of these places where perfectly adequate they were of course nowhere near as amazing as Sherlock and John's chosen venue.

As much as Sherlock had been tempted to conduct the ceremony quickly and efficiently in some tiny bland registrar's office with minimum fuss it was nowhere near special enough considering that he was finally marrying the man of his dreams. It was also far too obvious a plan and the first place Mycroft would look for them (which is why he had made arrangements in several other locations and planted decoys around the greater London area).

Bamburgh castle was brilliant not because of its fairy tale location or coastal views (though they certainly helped, as did having contacts who were more than willing to lend them the castle for an hour or two) but simply because no one would ever expect John, with his simple tastes and practical mind-set to actually agree to get married at such an extravagant venue when the town hall was a perfectly viable option at a fraction of the cost (they forgot of course just how much of a influence Sherlock could be on his beloved).

Despite Sherlock's usual preference for modern architecture, the castle had a strong sense of history and character that was not disinteresting. It was perfect for a happily ever after to begin thought Sherlock secretly, his face indifferent to the sappiness of the occasion that had begun to invade his well-tuned mind.

Like the most ideal of marriages the castle stood the test of time, weathered in places and patched up in others but overall made more beautiful for having withstood fierce and bloody battles and invading forces that had sought to tear the castle to the ground. It took hard work for the grounds to bloom with such a variety of bountiful flowers and without this care, this lifelong dedication, the gardens would flounder and die slowly of neglect like a relationship born without love.

With most of the actual specifics taken care of by John, Sherlock is hardly surprised to find it has been planned with military precision as a greeter stands outside waiting for them with two glasses of champagne when they arrive. Greg downs his drink in one go as the photographer snaps away at them (thankfully without the flash on).

Their greeter (a divorcee and mother of one called Cathy) leads the way, her heels clicking as she trots across the grounds, along stoned floored corridors and up a tiny winding stone staircase to the castle keep.

"Do you want me to walk you down the aisle?" Greg asks trying not to feel old as they slowly ascend up the seemingly unending staircase.

"No and why do people keep assuming I'm the bride?"

"Well you are…" Greg fumbles awkwardly his hands gesturing aimlessly as he tries to avoid upsetting Sherlock further. Not wanting to be the one to explain to John why Sherlock was sulking on one of his happiest days of his life. Realising Sherlock was waiting for an answer he mumbles finally.

"Wearing blue shoes." His response not making much sense he hurries to explain himself.

"Traditionally it's the bride's role to wear something old, new borrowed and blue isn't it?" He adds loosening his collar and avoiding direct eye contact.

"If this wedding were the traditional sort there would actually be a bride instead of two grooms." Sherlock huffs having by this point in the proceedings has given up correcting everyone about the civil ceremony.

"Anyway we decided to split that tradition, I'm wearing John's dog tags and John's wearing a new tie and an old pair of cufflinks."

Greg is saved from having to try and formulate any sort of reply to that as they finally reach the end, only to be confronted by John and Bill waiting for them by the service lift with Gladstone and the Registrar.

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><p>John can't help but stare at Sherlock in amazement, for though he always looks like some gorgeous model that has just come off a runway; Sherlock has really outdone himself this time. He stands there looking rakishly handsome in a smart soft grey suit and matching waistcoat that somehow makes him seem less pale than usual. His crisp white shirt unbuttoned just a little, shows off that beautiful collarbone of his. His hair is a glorious mess as usual and over all the effect is mesmerising, so much so that John is tempted to pull Sherlock into the nearest cupboard or abandoned room and forget about the wedding entirely.<p>

Realising he is practically groping Sherlock with his eyes John blushes slightly and collects himself just enough to listen to the Registrar as he leads them into the room that has been lavishly decorated for their ceremony.

The room, which was normally only used for school trips and private tours had been transformed into some magical flower filled, intimate wonderland by a well-meaning yet slightly over zealous wedding planner. Flickering tea lights traced the outline of an aisle leading to the ivy covered wedding arch in the centre of the room. The natural light cascading in from the arched windows bounced across the thick stone walls causing the ancient weaponry decorating the room to gleam brightly.

Sherlock casts his eyes over the numerous flowers arrangements before smiling slightly, pleased that the insufferable wedding planner had gotten something correct. He turns slightly so as to allow the photographer a better angle of his face for his shots and spots Gladstone trying to sniff the flower bouquets. Sherlock gestures to Bill and tells him to:

"Make sure to keep Gladstone away from the flowers, they're poisonous"

"How poisonous?" Bill asks casting him a worried look as he gathers Gladstone closer to his chest.

"Don't worry they're only fatal if consumed."

Bill shoots John a please tell me he's kidding look to which John shrugs in reply as the music signing the start of the ceremony begins to play on the sound system.

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><p>Hey sorry it kinda jumps around a bit, I hope you liked it anyway, don't forget to review!<p> 


	28. Ending

They've hardly returned to London from their two week honeymoon in a cottage of a former client before Sherlock is dragging John off to Bart's to look at a disembodied head Molly had gotten him as a wedding present. Once there Sherlock gets John a visitor's badge so he can have a look around the place he once studied at and then abandons him pressing a quick peck on his cheek as he does so.

John's hardly made it further then the lobby when a plump bespectacled man carrying paperwork bumps into him. Apologising quickly John bends down to help him but is brushed away.

"No, no don't worry about it mate it was my fault, I wasn't looking were I was going." The man looks up at him and stops. "John, John Watson? Is that you?"

John looks blankly back at the man unable to place him.

"Mike Stamford, I know I got fat" He says smiling.

"I heard you were abroad getting shot at, what happened?"

"I got shot."

"Well you look good I must say, been back long?" Asks Mike changing the subject quickly, clearly embarrassed over his accidental faux par. John nods in reply and smiles.

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><p>"So what are you doing back at Bart's? Looking for a job?" Asks Mike casually as the two of them sip cafeteria coffee.<p>

"Oh no nothing like that, my better half works here so I thought I'd take a quick look around before we go off to lunch."

Mike suddenly clocks the ring, smiles and says congratulations before asking if he might know the lucky lady.

"Sherlock Holmes." John replies deciding to be as blunt about it as possible. Mike chokes on his coffee in surprise.

"I guess you know him then" Says John passing him some napkins.

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><p>Sherlock interrupts their conversation not long after that having finished with his experiments. He bundles John into a taxi with the promise of lunch. They stop outside a small café called Speedy's and John sighs.<p>

"Sherlock, you said we were going somewhere nice"

"We are, later"

"What are we doing here then?"

Sherlock doesn't answer and knocks on the door to the house next to the café.

The door opens with a delighted cry of "Sherlock".

John recognises the voice of that belonging to Mrs Hudson. John notes that she looks far happier than she did the last time they'd met. She lets them inside and gives them a quick hug each in the hallway.

"Oh look at you too! Aren't you a sight for sore eyes?"

"Sherlock told me the news, congratulations dear. I knew you'd get him to settle down in the end." She says patting John's arm happily.

"Now you must show me the wedding pictures when you've got a chance to all right, just pop down and we'll have a nice cup of tea and chat." She adds speaking mostly to John, ignoring Sherlock fiddling with his phone.

"Now the flat's just up here" She says leading them up the flight of stairs. John gives Sherlock a look that says you didn't, did you? Oh you bastard you did. Sherlock just grins in reply. Which is all the evidence John needs, to know that he's right.

Inside the flat is full of boxes, boxes that contain all their stuff. The skull sits on the fireplace mantle and Sherlock's science equipment is spread out on the kitchen table and in the corner John spies his CD's and books stacked haphazardly into one big tower. John's eyes travel round the room cataloguing every item as he tries to work out when Sherlock found the time to do all this and why he wasn't consulted in the first place.

Mrs Hudson stands in the doorway a cheerful smile on her face.

"Oh and you mustn't worry about this neighbourhood, it's a good'en, everyone's very accepting around here, why Mrs Turner next door's married ones have a lovely little girl." She says before mouthing the word adopted and asking if they'll be wanting the extra space of the room upstairs.

John flashes Mrs Hudson a smile and drags Sherlock into the kitchen for a quick talk. Sherlock seems to think he's done something good, for he tries to bend down and kiss John the minute the door closes. Irritated John grabs his stupid face with his hands stopping him from completing his actions. Sherlock does his adorable confused face, the one that's just reserved for John.

"You don't like my surprise then?" He asks dumbfounded the moment John removes his hands from his lips.

John sighs again, they'd talked about getting a bigger place in order to get away from the noisy nightclub that had recently opened below them and so Gladstone who was no longer a pup could have more space but John hadn't actually thought Sherlock would do anything before asking him first. Apparently John had thought wrong.

John stares at his beloved's daft face and remembers every stupid thing he has ever done just to try and win John's approval and decides this is the most ridiculous. John relents and kisses the daft sod.

* * *

><p>A delicious lunch at Angelo's is rudely interrupted by a text from Lestrade requesting help with a tricky case involving serial suicides. After a brief discussion as to whether John will join him on the case or not (he will) and whether dessert is strictly necessary (it is) they arrive at the scene some nearly forty five minutes later.<p>

* * *

><p>"Hello freak" Sneers Donovan in greeting, looking somewhat cold as she stood outside the crime scene maintaining the perimeter.<p>

"Who's this?" She asks spotting John.

"My partner, Doctor John Watson."

"Watson-Holmes" corrects John about the same time Donovan says:

"Since when do you have a partner?"

The three of them stop and stare at each other, Sherlock far to absorbed in observing the John's sincere simile as he silently assures him that he is more than willing to take on the Holmes name to notice the way Sally's head swivelled violently between the two of them the confusion on her face slowly turn to understanding horror. John stands there sweetly in one of his comfy jumpers trying hard not to laugh.

"You don't mean Lestrade was telling the truth?"

Before they can answer her, there's movement further up inside the crime scene as one of the forensic team catches sight of them talking to Sally and angrily makes his way towards them. As he gets closer John notes that he is an incredibly ugly man with a large nose and terrible haircut.

"Where the hell have you been?" Snaps Anderson irately glaring at Sherlock. The entire crime scene grinds to a halt as every head there turns to watch Sherlock and Anderson's latest fight play out.

"What do you mean?" Asks Sherlock ever so slightly surprised.

"I mean four people have been killed while you've been off doing god knows what!"

"If you were any good at your job you wouldn't need my assistance, besides I told Helen in HR I needed two weeks off ages ago, it was sanctioned vacation."

"Sanctioned my arse! You told her you were going on honeymoon you lying git!"

"I didn't lie about anything" Replies Sherlock too busy surveying the crime scene to notice the look rising on John's face as he bristled in agitation as some git badmouthed his honey (he had a sneaking suspicion it might be the same git that had ruined a Christmas gift he had given Sherlock some time earlier).

"Oh as if someone is willing to marry a freak like you!"

"Oi! Don't you talk about my husband like that!" John yells loudly before he can stop himself, upset at the way Sherlock's so called colleagues treated him.

Silence falls over the scene at his words. Anderson in particular seems to have short circuited his pea sized brain.

"That is my Husband in all his tiny, bad-ass glory." Sherlock thinks proudly staring at John, his heart warming inside his chest as he does so.

Turning his attention back towards the case Sherlock spots Lestrade exiting the house turned crime scene and heads over towards him, John following faithfully behind him.


	29. Bonus

After the credits extra bonus scene

* * *

><p>Sherlock's already raced on ahead mumbling something about missing suitcases when Donavan catches John on his way after his madman.<p>

"So why did you marry him? Was it for a visa?" She asks her dislike of Sherlock obvious from her tone.

John licks his lips and draws himself up into a military stance.

"You know sometimes it amazes me how utterly dull people can be, I married him for the usual reason."

Donovan stares at him shocked.

"You don't actually care about that freak? Do you?"

"As a matter of fact, I do."

"What really? Why? He's a psychopath."

"No he's not. He's brilliant you might not be able to see that but he is."

He says pushing past her and trailing down the road after Sherlock.


End file.
